


Coronaboosh (or Love in the Time of Corona)

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Drama, Howard is an actor, M/M, Some Humor, Vince and Howard in their middle years, Vince is a chat show host, coronavirus (COVID-19), various real-life celebrities pop up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 79,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24330148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Thanks to Bollo's machinations, Vince and Howard reunite after 13 years apart.  They're just in the midst of making up when the coronavirus hits, with Howard one of its victims.  Vince has to grow up fast if he's going to help Howard."I Want to Be Just Like Him" connects with this story.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir, Vince Noir & Bryan Ferry
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	1. December 2019

**Author's Note:**

> "I was always quite good at getting pop stars to come out of their shells. . . giving the floor to someone else."--Noel Fielding, interview with Alex Belfield, Celebrity Radio, 2015. 
> 
> Here you’ll find a mishmash of quotations from Boosh episodes and _The Big Lebowski_. (I have a feeling that Vince and Howard would get a kick out of that movie.) You may also notice a discordance between reality and fantasy; for instance, I’ve jiggled the timeline for _IT Crowd_ and _The Masked Singer_ , so they would fit this story.

Howard wanted to be asked and Vince wanted to be chosen, and neither would humble himself long enough to give the other what he wanted.

That was the root of the problem. From the very beginning, Naboo was perceptive enough to see that, but being Naboo, he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. After a while, Bollo gave up nagging him. Howard and Vince being Howard and Vince, they’d find each other again. 

Until one day Bollo tore November off the calendar and realized with a start, “It almost Christmas.” 

Naboo swiped a cloth across his shop counter, raising a cloud of dust. “Three months since our last sale. Maybe we should take out an advert.”

“Next month 2020.”

“Wonder if we still got those Christmas sale signs Vince painted. In the upstairs closet, maybe.” Naboo was talking to himself; he’d developed that habit over the years, since he didn’t have those two ballbags to cuss out. 

Bollo insisted, “Next month 2020.”

Naboo glanced up. “Nothing special about that. It was 2010 that was special, remember? Add the numbers, you get 30, the area code for Xooberon. Multiply 20 and 10 and you get 200, the secret address for the Council House of Board of Shamans.”

“200 Board of Shamans Boulevard,” Bollo murmured.

“And subtract 20 from that and you get 180—”

“Dennis' hat size?” Bollo guessed.

“No, the number I bet on in the First Annual Porpoise Races. Won fifty quid.”

Bollo nodded thoughtfully. “That was good day.” 

“Good day.” Naboo slipped back into his reverie.

Bollo waddled away from the calendar to thump his fist on the clean counter top. “Harold won that race. Vincey sewed his jockey silks.” When Naboo continued to dust in silence, Bollo persisted, “Next month 2020.” 

With an annoyed sigh, Naboo flicked his dust rag at his familiar. “What’re you on about? Did I forget an anniversary?”

“Yes.” Bollo dared to glare. 

Naboo took the hint. “Oh. Let me guess: two hundred years since I adopted you.”

“That anniversary two years ago. You gave me ticket for _Hamilton_.”

“Oh. So what are you on about? Or are you just moody because you’re bored?”

Bollo pointed to the calendar. “2020. Thirteen years.”

“Off again, Bollo. Thirteen might be unlucky here, but on Xooberon it’s a spiritual number. Remember? The number of tentacles on King Harrison the First’s back.” Naboo frowned. “Or was it the number of his wives?”

Now Bollo was steaming. “Thirteen years! 20 December 2007. The Horrors.”

Naboo scratched his chin. A century of smoke fogged his brain, obfuscating his memory. “The Horrors, the Horrors.. . .” He snapped his fingers. “ _Apocalypse Now_ , right?”

“No, you berk!” Bollo snapped his fingers under Naboo’s chin. “Vincey and Harold! Silk Onion. Happymister. Sammy the Crab!”

“Trapped Wind!” The smoke in his mind released, Naboo could now access his memory. “Yes! Haabemaaster. After that advert, Howard went off with Tarantino to Finland to make a 'cold spaghetti' western. Vince went on tour with the Horrors, after the Black Tubes kicked him out. Then when the Horrors kicked him out, he played bass for Jedward.” They both shuddered. 

“Talk about horrors,” Bollo grunted.

“There were a string of short-lived bands after that. Six weeks with a neuvo-psychodelia/country fusion group, then a disco-rap group, then that trio that put nursery rhymes to grunge music.”

Bollo’s chest swelled with pride. “Vincey play every style. Multi-talented.”

“Yeah. Last I heard, he’d finally found a home with a Bowie/Blondie cover band.”

“The Parallel Ziggies.”

Naboo shook his head. “Long time ago. Wonder why he stopped calling.” 

“He call Bollo twice a week.” 

“Oh. Well, he saved your life once. He owes you.” But Naboo looked put out. “What’s he doing these days?”

“Naboo know, same as Bollo. You sneak-watch show.”

“What show?”

“ _Noir at Night_. Chat show for BBC4.” 

“Chat show! He got it right at last. If there’s one thing Vince is good at, it’s chat. If there’s a second thing he’s good at, it’s sucking up to celebrities.” 

“Good show. Won Lew Grade Award. Different from all the rest.” 

“It would have to be, wouldn’t it? Chat shows are ten a penny. How’s his different?”

“They’re on one time a week. He’s on five times, like American chat shows. Cool guests, cutting-edge humor and outfits.”

“Of course.”

“Biggest difference: Norton and Carr and them don’t have Vince.”

“Naturally.”

Bollo scowled at Naboo, as best an ape can scowl. “His show film in Television City.” 

“Huh. Wonder why he—”

“He come by here, once a month. Buys old jazz records.” Bollo indicated the spinner rack crammed with dust-covered LPs. “Asks about Harold. And dusts Stationary Village.”

“Wonder why he—”

“Because you act like ballbag. Last time he visit, you tell him, he useless in music, get back behind counter and sell something.” 

Naboo wandered over to Stationary Village with his dust rag. “Just telling it like it is. Suppose I should take this down, if it’s been thirteen years.”

“No. Suppose you should ring Vincey and Howard. Tell them stop being stupid. They got good jobs, but they miserable. They happier when they were poor together.”

Naboo picked up the paperclip tower to dust it. After a long silence, he asked, casually, “You, uh, have—”

Bollo offered his phone. “Ring Vincey first.”


	2. FLASHBACK:  January 2008

Huddled in his feathery red coat, Vince stood there under the street lamp outside the Backdoor Progression. Each time customers approached the doors to walk in, he’d take a step to follow, but then he’d hesitate and let the doors close in his face. He had no idea why he couldn’t bring himself to enter. This wasn’t a members-only club. This club didn’t charge an exorbitant cover charge—Vince couldn’t have afforded that, nor could Howard and Lester, back in the good old days (about six months ago) when they’d dared out into the London nightlife to listen to the local jazzmen play. This club wasn’t snobbish about who they let in (even a skinny garage band reject in drainpipes and pink silk shirt). This club even served drinks with tiny umbrellas in them; Vince bet he could coerce the bartender to concoct a flirtini. So why didn’t he follow the crowd inside?

Because, he discovered, every time the doors opened he could smell Howard. Or rather what Howard smelled like when he came back to Naboo’s flat after an evening of jazz: bourbon, cigarette smoke, peanuts, sweat. Back in the good old days when Howard lived in Naboo’s flat.

“Comin’, mate?” Someone was holding the doors open for him.

Maybe smelling the Saturday night Moon scent was why he’d come here in the first place. Or to listen to halfway familiar tunes that could remind Vince of the good old days before Howard abandoned his friends and his country, and the man who loved him, though neither of them quite understood that, in the good old days.

Vince nodded his thanks and walked in.


	3. FLASHBACK:  May 2009

A major change in Vince’s life came about at the approach of his 36th birthday, a change that at the time would led very quickly to other changes that he couldn’t have predicted. Not that Vince had ever been a future-oriented guy, not beyond a month or two anyway, and only so far as trends in fashion and music were concerned. Bryan could have predicted these changes, having lived through similar happenings himself, but he’d resigned himself to merely hinting at them and collecting his thoughts for future use, for the day when Vince would ask his advice. Some things a young man just has to learn for himself; Vince was the kind of guy who had to learn a lot of things for himself. 

A week before his 36th birthday, Vince decided to give up on pursuing a career in music. He figured 20 years was enough of a shot. From his most recent gig, he hadn’t made enough money to cover his phone bill (to be fair, the phone bill was monstrous, after all the calls he’d made to try to line up gigs for his band). The night of the gig, when the house lights came up for the band to take its bow (no one having asked for an encore), he noticed two things about the kids in the audience: first, they were the same age as the audience he’d played for 20 years ago, although he was old enough to be their father (or at least their cool uncle). Only Jagger could get away with violating the rules of teenage nature like that. Second, they weren’t ogling him the way audiences used to. When he leaned into them, they didn’t tear his shirt or yank out fistfuls of his hair. They didn’t scream his name or throw their phone numbers at him. They were, in fact, fiddling with their phones. And they weren’t dressing like him any more: there wasn’t a single pair of silver boots or a single cheeky fringe in the house.

Horror-stricken, Vince realized the irreversible truth: he wasn’t trendy any more. 

He’d let himself slip, he thought; he needed to find the latest issue of _Cheekbone_ right away. And the latest diet plan (what was it this year, the all-juice diet? The charcoal diet? The baby-food diet?)—he’d grown a bit jowly in recent years. And the cutting-edgiest designer—he’d been Jacquettie’s clothes horse for too long. Except. . .he was tired of running to stand still, he wasn’t making any money at it and he wasn’t having any fun. 

It was time to grow up. 

His income—and more and more, his self-esteem—these days was coming from shop work—which he did well, but he might as well teach art.

“I think it’s time I gave up on music,” he told Bryan. "I've got a couple more gigs lined up, then I can quit."

“I think,” Bryan said cautiously, “that’s probably a good idea.”


	4. FLASHBACK:  May 23, 2009

His band (though he rather doubted if they would be his after tonight), a Blondie/David Bowie tribute band called the Parallel Ziggies, didn’t stick around after the last number, not even for an encore (though no one in the audience had asked for an encore) or to wipe their makeup off before rushing out the backdoor to the van and driving off. Their lead singer, Vince Noir (the band had been pressing him to change his name to something more supportive of their act, such as Dabie Hairy), had gone backstage into the club’s ratty dressing room to change into street clothes (because really, in this part of town, not even the toughest Cockney bitch would want to be caught on the streets after dark dressed in a Debbie Harry wig, mini-skirt and fishnet stockings). 

After removing his makeup and carefully packing away his wig, he looked over his shoulder for someone he might know, preferably someone with a car. In the dim fluorescent light and the press of shaggy hair, leather and denim bodies, he couldn’t tell one guitar jockey from another. There wasn’t enough room for him to stand and change his clothes at the moment—besides, he was too tired and discouraged—so he simply sat, holding his body tight and still to avoid being bumped, jostled or stepped upon as the other performers dressed, devoured the stale sandwiches provided by the club, and drank (mostly drank) around him. 

His stomach churned: the meat in those sandwiches smelled moldy and clouds of cheap beer stuck to cotton and linen garments, mingling with sweat and marijuana. If not for the stink, he would be hungry: he never ate before a gig and lately, his personal budget hadn’t stretched to accommodate a full meal after a gig. Given the pitiful size of their audience, they probably wouldn’t be paid tonight, at least not enough to feed the entire band. No matter, since they’d all stormed out on him anyway. He wondered if he had enough to afford a taxi. 

Two days ago, Vince had turned 36. 

There had been a very nice, if awkward, dinner party at Bryan’s. It was an odd assortment of guests: former housekeeper Bernice, current friend Leroy, former bandmates Neon and Ultra (now dressed in Laura Ashley and going by the names Jennifer and Mary Sue) and their dates, and Vince’s stepbrothers. “I tried to reach Howard,” Bryan had whispered as the guests seated themselves in the formal dining room, “but his number’s been disconnected.” 

“Just as well.” Vince had made his voice cold. 

“Someday you’re going to have to tell me what happened between you two.” Bryan had pinned him with a patented you’re-not-getting-out-of-this stare. “Vince, it’s been two years.”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Vince had snapped, then realized he was snapping at the wrong person. “We grew up and went our separate ways, that’s all. He became a famous actor. I became—” Vince had shrugged.

Presents had been presented, cellared wine had been drunk, polite “how’ve you been” questions had been asked and answered. Fifteen minutes after the birthday song had been sung and the cake had been served (thankfully, Bryan had left off the candles), the first guest excused himself, and in less than ten minutes the room had been cleared.

Vince Noir, rock and roll would-have-been star, had turned 36. 

As he sat before the flourescent-lit mirror in the ratty dressing room at Club Rats Nest in Croydon, his eyelashes heavy with mascara and his bony body clad in yellow evening gloves, skin-tight mini-skirt and a garbage bag tunic, Vince took stock of his life accomplishments:

*14 pay-the-rent jobs, the longest lasting 2 years  
*membership in 7 bands  
*0 records, recording contracts, awards, agents or managers  
*2 television appearances on regional morning shows, for a total telly time of 3 minutes, 4 seconds  
*1 membership card in the Musicians’ Union  
*an average annual income (primarily from the pay-the-rent jobs) of £ 18046  
*2 bass guitars, one currently in hock

And based on tonight’s fiasco, in which, through no fault of the band’s, the electricity had cut out for nearly an hour and most of the audience had walked out, one more club he’d never be invited to perform in again. 

Bryan had never said as much, but Leroy had, flat out: “When you gonna grow up, Vince?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw a hand dart out past his shoulder. He wiggled aside. “Be outta your way in a sec, mate. Just let me wipe off m’ mascara, yeah?”  


The hand snatched a Kleenex from a box on the dressing table. “Yeah. You’re leaking.” The Kleenex was presented to him.

“Yeah, well, it’s a rough night, innit?” He grabbed the Kleenex and scrubbed the mascara from his cheeks (the skin over which was losing its youthful elasticity. In another year Vince would be downright jowly). 

“Yeah,” the voice said quietly. “It is.” Something about the strange accent made Vince glance up at the man standing behind his shoulder: tanned oblong face, brown almond eyes, narrow nose ending in a bit of a bulb, bushy black beard, and, underneath a brown corduroy fedora, a crown of black curls. 

“I like your hat,” Vince said. It made the man look accessible, Vince thought. Accessible and familiar. 

“Thanks. I’m a bit of hat aficionado, I suppose. Got a few minutes to chat a bit?” The man’s eyebrows danced like caterpillars skating on an iced pond. His eyes widened, showing the whites, then narrowed as he spoke, with no apparent relation between the implied emotion in these movements and the content of his speech.  


He was either crazy or a pantomime actor. The pointed tips of his ears suggested the latter. He was dressed, however, as if he were a tire changer in a discount tire store: oil-stained blue jeans with a ripped back pocket, blue jean jacket with unbuttoned pockets, floppy trainers. Beneath the open jacket Vince spotted a black t-shirt emblazoned with a single white feather, beneath which were the words “All Blacks.” Vince wanted to ask the symbol’s meaning, but he assumed it was a political statement of some sort and he certainly didn’t want to go there. 

“Buy you a beer?”

Vince looked at the man anew, decided he was interesting looking and worth chatting to. If something more developed, that might be all right too. It was about time Vince started dating in his age group. 

“Oh, I don’t mean. . . .” The man held up his hand in stop gesture. “A business beer.”

Vince relaxed. This really wasn’t a good night for starting a romance. For that matter, it wasn’t a good night for talking business either. He’d just made a total berk out of himself on stage, his makeup was a mess, he had a 36-year-old headache and barely enough money in his skirt pocket for a bag of crisps. “I think I should tell you, I just turned 36.”

The man’s eyes went Borneo wildman again. 

Vince tried to calm him down with an explanation. “I mean, I’m quitting music. So unless you're offering a junior manager position with Rumbelow’s, I’m not interested.”

“No, I don’t have one of those, but I do have a tenner for a couple of pints.” The hand darted out again. “My name is Taika Cohen, or sometimes Waititi.”  
\---  
“I liked your performance,” Waititi said, sliding a filled mug across to Vince. They were standing at the bar while they waited for a table to be vacated. 

“You must be joking. The whole show was shite.” 

“Oh, the music was shite,” Waititi agreed. “My dog can sing better than you, and I don’t have a dog.”

Vince snorted. “Yeah, well, like I said, this was my last gig.”

“That’s good.” Waititi sipped his beer, giving Vince time to react to his comment with his best pissed-off grimace. “That means you’re available for work.”

“So you _do_ have a junior management position.”

“Nope.”

“Look, this is as confusing as a chimp in an Elvis-in-Hawaii gold lame suit. Why did you say you liked my show if the music’s shite? I don’t know if you caught on, but that was what we were doing up there.”

Waititi chuckled. “Barely. I’ve heard tuarturas sing better.”

“I thought we established that. What are you on about?”

“That bit in the middle, when the lights when out.”

“What bit?” Vince was becoming agitated. “The band put down their instruments and walked off stage. Which is why the management wouldn’t pay us anything. They pay by the size of the audience.”

“Not a good business deal, is it? Get the money up front, I always say.”

“You berk.”

“The part in the middle, when the lights went out and the band walked off and you started telling jokes. Except they weren’t quite jokes, were they? More like fables. Funny, fantastical little stories.” After another sip, Waititi continued, “And those people who were walking out? They turned around and came back in.”  


“Not enough to get us paid.”

“But they were laughing. Have you ever done something like that before? Stand-up?”

“I always stand up when I sing.”

“No, stand-up comedy. Joke-telling. Or funny, fantastical story telling.”

“I do music, mate. Or did. I suppose I now do junior management at Rumbelow’s. Or sweeping up at Dixon’s.” 

“No you don’t,” Waititi said confidently. “You’re either a comedian or a comic actor. Not sure which yet.”

“What are you talking? Look, I’ve been singing professionally since I was seven.” Vince gulped his beer. “Okay, not professionally. But singing. I’m genius.”  


“You’re shite. But genius with the funny, fantastical stories. Which is why,” Waititi dug into a pocket of his jeans jacket. He found a business card and pushed it over. “My contact info.” He tapped his chest. “Taika Cohen Waititi, director and writer, and occasional stand-up and graphic arts. Television, films.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

“Name a film? Do you have a preference in genre, nation of origin, cast?”

“Name one that you directed. Or wrote. I’m not picky.”

“ _Two Cars, One Night_.”

Vince shook his head.

“It was nominated for an Oscar.”  


“Doesn’t ring a bell.”  


“ _Eagle vs. Shark_? Released two years ago. Limited release.”  


“Nope.”  


“ _Flight of the Conchords_? Directed two episodes, wrote one. Well, never mind. I assure you, I’m legit. Went to uni and everything.” He fished in his pocket again, took out a wallet and flipped it open. “Look, my directors’ guild card. My writers’ guild card. Equity card. My Green Lantern Fan Club lifetime membership card.”  


“I’m sold. So what’s a film director want from an ex-singer?”  


“I like your look.”  


“Thanks. Are you going into fashion design?”  


“I like your look for a film I’m writing. It’s not going to be ready for a while—it might not ever get made.”  


“About what?”  


“Vampires. Vampires in the modern world, sharing a flat in New Zealand.”  


“I was a Goth for about five minutes.”  


“I thought so! You have the look, like you just fell out of the back of a hearse.”  


“But the film might not be made.”  


“Right. But I met you tonight. I like your look and I like your humor. You’re quick and fresh. I think you might be right for a couple of smaller projects that are happening now. They’d give you some experience, your union cards, a little income while we’re waiting to see what happens with _What We Do in the Shadows_.”  


“That’s the vampire film? Sounds like a low-budget porno.”  


“We might tweak the title, who knows? These other projects, they’re in television. The show runners are friends of mine. One of them is a new sit-com. Hasn’t aired yet but Channel 4 ordered the first series. The humor is quirky, like yours. And you’ve got an immediate likability thing. That’s important in TV. My friend’s show is about a couple of computer nerds, but locked away in the server room is a mysterious employee that no one ever sees, until one day the new boss lets him out, and he’s a Goth. Black Edwardian clothes, white face, listens to death metal.”  


“I’ve got those clothes.” Despite his better judgment, Vince felt his heart begin to pound. “And the make-up. And the CDs.”  


Waititi spread his hands, encouraging applause. “Am I right or am I right? It’s a recurring part; you won’t be in every episode.”  


“That’s how it should be. A little goth goes a long way.”  


“I think my friend will like you for the role. He’ll probably allow you some latitude in developing the character; he knows all about geeks but has only a nodding acquaintance with Goths. I’ll ring him tomorrow, if you’re interested; you’ll have to audition.”  


The pounding of Vince's heart overcame the pounding headache. Was this really happening? Was the Sunshine Kid, whose constant companion was good luck, reawakening? But: acting? Comedy?  


“That’s one. Not enough to build your stock-market portfolio on, but it’ll pay better than these Top of the Pops reject gigs. Now the other project I’m thinking of—this one will be more challenging. But don’t worry, they’ll coach you. You’ll audition; if they like you, they’ll put you on once; if that goes well, it could become a regular gig. It’s a comedy panel show, more comedy than game.” Waititi ordered another round. “I think they’re going to like you. You’ve got wit, imagination, and the right look, a rock ‘n’ roll look.”  


“I should,” Vince muttered. “I worked on that look for twenty years.”  


“You’ll be comfortable there. You can be yourself, whatever that is. With your background in music, you’ll probably make a good player too, though, really, that’s secondary to the humor and the look.”  


“What show is this?” Vince’s head was starting to fill with air, like a balloon, but not from the single beer he’d drunk.  


“ _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_.”  


His jaw dropped. It took another gulp of beer to make his voice work. “Where do I sign?”


	5. FLASHBACK:  Sometime in MARCH 2013

“Really? You can’t drive?” Chloe blinked up at him. A quick glance informed him that she wasn’t being sarcastic or even judgmental.

And yet his tone became defensive. He’d known all along that eventually, this issue would come up, but for it to come up in this way. . . . He and his producer Chloe had been due at an early-morning meeting with the Director-General of the BBC, who wanted to inform them personally that their show had been nominated for three BAFTAs (and consequently, a raise in budget). Then Vince’s Lyft driver had canceled at the last minute (something about the guy’s wife going into labor) and there was no other car in the neighborhood and the taxi services that his personal assistant had called were all busy—in the end, Kerry himself had had to cut his classes at UCL to dash over to Highgate and pick up his boss. Vince had phoned in, but the D-G couldn’t reschedule, leaving Chloe alone to receive the news. Pissed off as she had been when he finally showed up for work, she’d also found his rambling excuse surprisingly believable: it wasn’t like Vince to fail to decorate his excuses for tardiness with tales of bedroom raids by giant kingfishers or jodhpurs caught on hedgehogs. “Almost 25 percent of adults in England can’t drive.”

She had a simple answer: “So?” 

They were walking down the corridor leading from her office to the studio, where she would announce the good news to the show’s crew. Probably the good news explained why she wasn’t more pissed off. It was kind of hard to get mad at the guy who was responsible for your budget increase. 

He drew his lips back tight. It had been years since he’d had to reveal his dyslexia to her and the crew; they’d long since found their way around the situation and the subject had never come up again. He was hoping it never would. “The driving test is written.”

“Huh uh, not good enough. You graduated from uni. Obviously you can complete a written test.”

He raised his eyes to the nicely framed show posters on the corridor wall. “I—on the first day of class, I had to tell the profs about my, about the dyslexia. They made accommodations.” 

“Okay.” She shrugged. “Well, my dad works for the DVLA. I know for a fact they’ll give the test orally.”

“And I have difficulty reading the road signs.”

“Memorize the shapes and colors. That’d come easy to you. You’re an artist.”

He brought his eyes down to meet hers. “The truth is, I’m afraid. When I was a kid and people tried to teach me, it didn’t go well. ‘The trash bin slayer,’ they called me.”

“So you gave up. And here you are, 40 years old—”

“Thirty-nine.”

“A BAFTA nominee, 3 million people watch you five nights a week, the linchpin of a nation-wide television show that feeds 34 people, a homeowner, a tax payer—” she squinted suspiciously—”you do pay your taxes, don’t you?” At his snort, she continued, “Not to mention all the side projects you’ve got on, the game shows and festivals and painting shows and whatnot. You’ve got a lot of responsibilities, dude. And yet you let a little thing like driving trip you up?”

He didn’t answer so she shook her head. “Look, Vince, my dad taught me to drive when I was 14. It took about two hours. Be up and dressed at 7 am on Saturday. We’ll pick you up, take you out to the country. You’re gonna learn to drive.” Any protests he might have followed with, she squelched: “You’re not gonna be late for the BAFTAs.”


	6. DECEMBER 24, 2019

Rather than the shop bell that usually greeted an incoming customer, a string of red and green lights blinked over the door and an automated dancing Rudolph sang “Jingle Bells.” Pausing under the lights, Vince watched them for a moment, admiring the way that they blinked in time to the song. Then he stroked the reindeer’s head and mused, “They’re not really social animals, you know. As bad tempered as llamas.” 

“Vincey.” Bollo lumbered to him with open arms. After a long hug and “you haven’t aged a bit” and “great outfit” compliments, Vince asked, “Is he—”

“I’m here, Vince. Was just taking the rubbish out.” Naboo strolled in from the back, wiping his hands against his trousers. 

Mouth falling open, Vince studied him from tip to toe: close cropped gray hair, a navy Hugo Boss suit and white silk shirt, a Vince Noir original hand-painted tie, left over from the old days. “You.. .” 

“Yeah. A few years ago. I thought if I changed my look to something more corporate, I might bring in more of the Rick Steves Tours trade.” Naboo spread his hands, inviting a critique. “What do you think?”

“I, ah—how does it go over with the Rick Steves crowd?”

Naboo shrugged. “Well, you know.” He cast about for a new topic; when his eyes fell upon the tie caddy on an accent table, he gestured to it. A printed sign's rainbow-colored letters proclaimed the ties’ provenance: TIES BY VINCE. HAND-PAINTED BY VINCE NOIR, STAR OF NOIR AT NIGHT. The proclamation was signed with Vince’s trademark, a smiling sun, a nod to his media nickname, the Sunshine Kid. “Your ties are a best seller with the over-60 set.” Vince’s eyes widened, then prepared to narrow, then twinkled as Vince settled on laughter rather than insult. “I thought there must be a box full of them stashed in storage. Finally Bollo told me you’ve been bringing them by. Waiting until I’m not here?”

“I know better than to tangle with you. I was surprised you invited me.” 

Naboo trailed a finger through the dust gathered on _Bitches Brew_. “Bollo’s idea. I suppose I’m getting soft in my middle years.”

“You’re still mad at me, then?”

“You were the right ass-hat, in that last year.”

Vince straightened the ties on the rack, or pretended to, so he had a reason not make eye contact. “Yeah. I think I was going through a delayed adolescence. The emotional equivalent of a hormonally induced teenage mood swing that lasted almost a year.” He let go of the pretense and looked at Naboo. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have interfered in whatever was going on between you and Shrimp Eyes.”

Bollo grumbled, “Naboo threw Vincey out.”

“Maybe I was going through a phase too. I’m a cool-headed businessman.. . these days.” He gestured to Vince. “You changed too. You don’t sparkle any more.” 

“Trimmed my hair a little, cut back on the lipstick and eye shadow, put on three pounds,” this latter confession he muttered. “The androgynous look is outdated. But I’m still known for my edgy fashion sense. I have a personal designer. I wear a shirt or jumper on telly, knockoffs appear in the shops the next day. I wore joggers and a Colchester United t-shirt when I went shopping yesterday, just for a laugh; nobody recognized me.” He grinned at Bollo. “I had to rush right home and change my clothes.”

“Vincey always look good. But Vincey more than jumpers and tight jeans. Good to talk to, too. Good heart.”

“Thank you, Bollo.” Genuinely flattered, Vince slipped an arm around the ape’s shoulders for a half-hug. “You’ve always been my loyalest fan.”

Naboo cleared his throat nervously before stepping closer. “I guess an apology—”

“Yeah.”

“We’re good, then?”

“Awww, come here, you great ball of shamanness, you.” Vince scooped Naboo in for a hug. “Happy Christmas to us, one and all.” Over Naboo’s head, Vince searched the shop. 

“He’s coming,” Naboo assured him. “His train arrives at five.”

Vince nodded. He didn’t have to ask where Howard was coming from: Bollo had kept him apprised all these years. “I brought presents for everyone. Help me bring them in from the car?”

The three rambled out to a neon blue Guilia parked at the curb. As Vince loaded their arms with wrapped gifts, Naboo peered into the front seat. “Where’s your driver?”

“Don’t have one.” Vince smiled a secret little smile, giving them a second to figure it out.

“You learned to drive?” 

He stroked the bonnet of the car. “When I bought this. It’s too pretty not to drive.” He reached into the boot to retrieve an overnight bag. “Is the old room—”

“Bollo hoover in there this morning. Fresh linens—on both beds,” he added pointedly.

“It’s just that, after your infamous Christmas eggnog, I thought it might not be safe to drive back to Highgate.” But Bollo and Naboo threw him a suspicious look. “Well, you know, we get to talking late til dawn. . .. .I’m not the night owl I used to be. I might need a little sleepy.”

Naboo led them upstairs to the living quarters. Vince paused at the threshold to look around. “Nothing’s changed.” Though the rooms were smaller than he remembered, and the furniture and appliances scratched and nicked, and the carpets faded with age, he found the tension rolling off his shoulders. He didn’t have to worry about appearances here. He was home.

“You’ve still got my painting,” he exclaimed, pointing to the wall between the bedrooms. “ _Bollo Cesar_.” In a flash Vince’s memory leaped back to the zoo days, when Vince was in his Realist period—or at least, trying to be; somehow all his art even then took flights of fancy. His smile faded. So much to miss about those days. Just out of college, Vince and Howard hadn’t yet found out who they were, except for each other’s best mates. “Blood brothers,” Vince liked to say, a term he’d picked up from American Westerns; “Bongo brothers,” Howard preferred. 

That was when they were kids and they could talk more freely. That was before the bands and the parties and the Artistes that came between them. Before Vince and Howard came between Vince and Howard. 

“Vincey paint one of Naboo someday? For other wall?” Bollo requested hopefully.

“Sure. Thanks for asking, Bollo.” 

“I’ll start on dinner,” Naboo headed for the kitchen.

Vince called after him, “Naboo! You learned how to cook?” 

Naboo threw a skeptical glance over his shoulder. “Hell, no. Picked it up from Sainsbury’s. I’m tossing it in the cooker. Not everything’s got to change, Noir.”

With a pleased hum, Vince walked into—well, he couldn’t call it his and Howard’s room any more, could he? He walked into the guest room to unpack his bag. Everything was just as he’d left it, thirteen years ago—the posters of Bowie and Jagger and Miles Davis, the chintz curtains with tiny embroidered yellow roses, the Boze stereo that Howard had saved so long to buy. The closet and the dresser were empty, of course; at some point after Vince had left, Howard had asked Naboo to mail his clothes to him. He hadn’t ever come for the stereo, though; he was finicky about moving it, he claimed; the slightest bump would disturb the fine tuning. Or maybe, Vince wondered, leaving the stereo had been an excuse to come back sometime.

More likely, when the money started rolling in, Howard had bought himself something fancier. 

Vince dropped to his knees to search for marks that no one else but Howard knew existed, signs that they had lived here, argued here, laughed here. The stain in the carpet beside Vince’s bedpost, from where he spilled hair dye. He’d been tipsy at the time; otherwise he would’ve dyed his hair over the bathroom sink. Annoyed, but secretly amused at the crooked skunk streak that Vince’s attempt at punk fashion had produced, Howard had snatched the bottle away, capped it and tossed it in the bin, then rushed Vince off to the shower and shoved him under, still dressed. They’d scrubbed the streak out in time, but Vince had to reapply his Raven Black dye the next day. 

On Howard’s headboard there was a chip in the lacquer, a permanent scar that resulted from an argument in which some shoes might have been thrown. In which some silver boots belonging to Vince had been thrown. Vince could no longer remember what had started the argument, just that he’d yanked off and thrown his Chelsea heels. He was a pretty good athlete—people were constantly surprised to learn that—so he’d intentionally shifted his aim to avoid hitting Howard. But Howard, not realizing that at the time, had ripped up an issue of _Cheekbone_ with Vince on the cover (which was okay, he knew, because Vince had a drawer full of copies). When Vince retrieved his boots and inspected them for damage, Howard swept up the shredded paper. 

In those days they always apologized after every argument, after every insult, whether intentional or accidental. When had the apologizing stopped? Vince could only remember the snide comments and concerned advice dripping like rusty water into his ears, as his trendy “friends” tried to pry him away from the totally unfashionable and unremarkable Moon. At some point his heart had become corroded. 

He’d crossed the line—he’d known it at the time, but he was so desperate to be accepted by the Camden dollies that he walked right over—when he destroyed Howard’s most-treasured possessions: the ultra-rare jazz record he’d searched and saved for, for so long, and his dream of artistic recognition by means of a role in a Haabemaaster masterpiece. After that, his relationship with Howard was lost and no apologies—if Vince had remembered how to feel sorry—could recover it. Weeks later, after the dollies lost interest in him and moved on to the next big thing—shame crept up on him, and when Howard came back, embarrassed about his great debut, there might have been a chance: he needed the Sunshine and Vince could still produce it. Howard need his bongo brother. Vince too, stinging from rejection, needed his blood brother. A few days to let down their guard, step past their pride—but the Horrors rang and like a shot Vince was gone. When he came back from tour, Howard was gone. No phone call, no goodbye note. Vince had had no time to think about it: Jedward was calling. 

But lately, he’d had a lot of time to think about it in his two-bedroom, two-bath Highgate commonhold. He’d never slept in one of those bedrooms. He didn’t even know what his cook/cleaner looked like; she had his linens turned down and his dinner in the cooker when he came home at seven o’clock. He thought her name was Annie, but he wasn’t sure: his business manager made out her checks. 

There were women in his life—a few of them good friends, in fact—but they never stayed for long. Maybe he was too busy for marriage, he told them, or too shallow. 

His strongest relationship was with his dog, a mutt he’d rescued a few years ago on Hampstead Heath.  
—-  
He’d always figured himself for a cat man, but when the bony dog had peered up at him, he could’ve sworn those were tears in the mutt’s eyes, and when he’d tried to walk away and the old fellow had limped after him, Vince was convinced that fate had stepped in. A trip to a vet for a bath, flea dip and health inspection had come next next; Vince didn’t want fleas hopping off his new flatmate and making themselves comfortable in his carpets. The vet had finished the exam with vaccinations and an ear cleaning. “Bring him back in a couple of weeks for microchipping,” she advised. “And if you want to keep him fit and focused, give him work to do. You can put a pack on him and have him carry things in it. It’ll give him a sense of purpose, being of use to his master.”

He’d asked for an appointment for neutering, but the vet just shook her head and looked away. “He doesn’t need neutering.” 

“Sure he does. Any child of mine is going to practice safe sex.” 

“He’s already been neutered.” She’d stroked the mutt’s protruding spine and lifted his tail. “His tail used to be about two inches longer. See that? The tip was bobbed.” 

“Scrapper, is he?”

“Another dog didn’t do that.”

It had taken a minute for Vince’s brain to catch up. When it did, he’d had to swallow hard. “Oh.” He had tucked the dog under his arm; the dog tucked his nose under Vince’s elbow and sighed. “Let’s go home, Kadaway.” The dog gave him no argument—never did from that day forth.

———-  
Vince sat back on his heels, enjoying the sunshine pouring in through the windows. For the first time in months, he felt at ease, safe from observation, demands and judgment. He had a full week’s vacation from _Noir at Night_ , media interviews, game shows, gallery openings. Idly he tucked in an unattended corner of the linens on Howard’s bed. Howard was fussy about things like that. Vince supposed he had an Annie/Abby too, but probably trailed after her, tucking in corners, refolding the laundry, reorganizing the vegetable tins in the cupboards. 

Howard was unattached too. Bollo had kept Vince apprised. Every time Bollo gave the Howard Report, Vince said that was too bad: Howard ought to have a family and a dog behind a white picket fence. But a nasty little voice deep in Vince’s heart chirped, “Yay!” 

He leaned on Howard’s bed to haul himself to his feet. He kept himself in shape with celebrity football matches and tennis, but his nearly-fifty-year-old joints made funny noises when he stood up, like a wooden Pinocchio with sand in his hinges. 

His nose caught scent of roast turkey, rosemary potatoes and parkin; he heard a bang and a string of Xooberese curses (he could translate them accurately after years of living with Naboo). In his younger years, Vince hadn’t had much of an appetite; he’d snacked on sweets and crisps when his housemates ate square meals. That was one of the changes that had come with gray streaks and creaky joints. He liked a four-course lunch (not as calorie-heavy as it sounded: the vegetarian wellington, for example, was no bigger than his thumb) at the Clove Club at 2:00 and a full vegetarian meal prepared by Annie—Abby? Aggie?—waiting for him at 10 pm. 

His nose led him to the hallway just as heavy footsteps clomped up the stairs to the flat. A head of curly salt-and-pepper hair appeared first, then the body rose from the stairs and entered the living room. A cinnamon-colored roll-neck over a little pot belly, the trademark mustache that distracted the observer’s attention away from the shrimp eyes, a day’s scruff—Vince froze in the doorway to their bedroom. Behind the turkey and parkin, he could smell Old Spice aftershave. His heart skipped.

“Hello, Vince.” Howard glanced at Vince’s nose, refusing to connect with his eyes, then turned away.

Vince couldn’t read Howard’s tone. They used to read each other’s every mood, correctly interpret every gesture and expression, but Howard was an actor now, experienced and trained. 

“All right, Howard?” From the corner of his eye, Vince caught Bollo hovering in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. 

“Merry Christmas, Bollo.” Howard walked over to the Christmas tree to set down his packages. 

“Merry Christmas, Howard.” 

Vince raised an eyebrow. Bollo had finally got Howard’s name right.

His hands buried in oven gloves, Naboo emerged from the kitchen. He’d discarded his jacket and tie somewhere. Though it had been thirteen years since he’d seen Howard, he merely nodded a hello. Unfazed and unimpressed by the return of the two prodigals, he barked, “Soup’s on, you gits.” 

But Howard appeared fazed and impressed. “You cooked? And you’re wearing a suit?”

Naboo shrugged. “Things change. Or not. In the kitchen, you wankers.” 

Moving in the same direction, they had to shorten the distance between them. In a lowered voice, Vince tried once again for a connection. “Happy Christmas, Bongo Brother.”

Howard misplaced his anger for a moment, long enough to make eye contact. His voice softened. “Happy Christmas.” Then they seated themselves at the table and the moment was gone.

Vince made conversation—mostly with himself—over dinner. Bollo contributed, but his vocabulary was limited. As the pigs in a blanket circulated, Vince steeled his spine, reminding himself that he was an expert in getting people to open up. He’d shared Howard’s past; of course he could find plenty to get Howard to talk about, or at least make him laugh. “So how have you been, Howard, these thirteen years?”

Howard dabbed his mustache with a napkin. “Just fine, Vince. And you?”

Okay, Vince sighed inwardly. He’s playing the Polite Celebrity card. Standard fare for strangers. “Oh well, I got a touch of sunburn when I mowed my lawn last weekend.”

This got a small rise out of Howard. “You mowed a lawn?”

“No.”

“Vincey drive car now,” Bollo chipped in. 

“Do you?” Another rise.

“In actual fact.”

“That Astin Martin’s yours?”

“It is. And yours?”

Howard stuffed a pig into his mouth, swallowing his words with it. “Subaru. Rides smooth in the LA traffic.” 

“Yeah, I’d heard you moved to LA. Why?”

Howard shrugged. “That’s where the action is. The British film industry is practically nonexistent these days. Heard you’re in Highgate now.”

“Yeah.” 

“Saw your show last night, while I was visiting my mum. Never would’ve figured you for a chat show, but it works. Funny. I like your theme song.”

“Bryan wrote it for me.”

“It sounds like you.”

“Saw your film.” 

“Did you? Which one?” 

“All of ‘em. Bought the tickets myself, too. Didn’t wait for them to show up on telly.”

“Did you like them?”

“All but the first one. You owe me 7 quid for that one.”

A snorting laugh burst from Howard’s chest. “Critics thought that one was quite good.”

“Well, hey, that’s why I didn’t ask for the full ticket price back. You can keep the 50p.”

Howard let loose with a genuine guffaw. “Vince, you can still make me laugh.”

“Good. Now, tell me you missed me and you’re sorry you never rang me up all these years. Or sent a letter. A postcard, even. I like postcards.”

“Don’t rush things.” Icicles were begging to build a wall around Howard’s words.

“You’ve had thirteen years to get over being mad at me. How’s that rushing?”

“I’m not as quick to pick up and drop people as you are. Mercurial would be a polite word for it. Others might say flighty or inconsistent. I might call it disloyal, betraying, back-stabbing.”

Vince had a few choice words ready in his back pocket, but he bit his lip. He hadn’t come here to fight. There was so little time, just two days before Howard would leave, and besides, he’d had a hundred blame-sessions in his head and he’d figured out that the only way to win such an argument was to never let it start. “Howard, you were right to be mad.. . thirteen years ago.”

“As for calling or writing letters, why didn’t you? You were the one who owed me the apology.” Howard’s white-streaked mustache twitched and his shrimp eyes narrowed.

Vince held in a sigh. “You have a point.” He put on his best Jeff Bridges accent. “’You’re not wrong, Walter. You’re just an asshole.’”

Confused, Howard screwed up his face. A full minute passed as the familiar but unrecognizable quotation flew over his head. The tension in his forehead eased gradually as Vince watched him search his memory: something from their past, something on the telly they’d watched, something they’d watched on the couch—the same couch sitting empty in Naboo’s living room. Vince could almost hear the squeaky wheels turning in Howard’s memory. A videotape, back when films came on videotapes. Both of them laughing so hard that the Tweety Bird bowl resting on Vince’s chest slid under the vibrations, slipped and crashed to the floor, scattering sweets. The last wrinkle between Howard’s eyebrows disappeared. “’I’m talking about drawing a line in the sand, Dude.’” 

Bollo and Naboo exchanged a shrug.

“Ahhhh, see?” Vince waggled a finger. “You can remember if you want to. Keep remembering, Howard; we’ll get there. Let’s go into the bedroom and talk.” He scraped his chair back. 

“’Fuck it, Dude, let’s go bowling,’” Howard quipped, engulfed in the absurdity. 

“’All right, I can see you don’t want to be consoled here.’” Vince stood. “’The Dude abides.’”

Howard followed suit. “Maybe we should give it a go. See if there’s anything left.. . .”

“Naboo, Bollo, thanks for the dinner. See you in the morning.” 

“What?” But Vince had already passed through the kitchen before Howard could complete his protest. Howard gaped at Naboo and Bollo, seeking an answer to his unspoken question, but Bollo merely smiled, as much as an ape can smile, around a mouthful of potato, and Naboo, enigmatic as ever, didn’t even look at him. “We’ll leave the washing up for you berks tomorrow.”

“Calm a llama down,” Vince sang under his breath. He was already stretched out across his old bed when Howard followed him into the room. “Calm a llama deep down.”

Under his breath—because he couldn’t help it, but he still had his pride—Howard slipped in, “In the ocean blue like a barnacle.”

Vince sat up and smiled his Sunshine Kid smile. “Sitting in the tight space laughing at the monkey arm, swimming like a china boy—”

“Pulling,” Howard corrected, but Vince had moved on to the chorus and Howard rushed to catch up. They both sighed in relief when the crimp finished. Howard stretched out on his bed.

“Howard?”

“What is it, Vince?”

“You know those black bits in bananas? Are they tarantula’s eggs?”

Howard buried his face in the pillow to smother his laughter. When he regained his composure, he addressed the elephant in the room. “No matter the situation or my mood, you always could make me laugh. But we really ought to talk seriously, if there’s anything left to salvage of our.. . .” His voice trailed off. He distracted himself by playing with a loose thread in the duvet.  


“Yeah.” Vince distracted himself by twirling a lock of his hair. “I tried, like a hundred thousand times, to ring you. I did let the number go through a couple of times, but I hung up before you picked up.”

“I composed a hundred emails before I realized you didn’t have an email account. Then I wrote a letter—it was your birthday and I fully intended to send it, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. I dropped it in the post. It came back to me. I guess that was when you moved to Highgate. I rang Naboo to ask for your new address, but he said, ‘Not yet’ and hung up on me. I suppose I could’ve phoned Bryan or Leroy or some of your old bandmates, but I.. . . I don’t know. Lost my nerve, I suppose. But I did think about you, often. Worry if you were getting enough to eat, enough sleep, too much partying.” 

“I worried about you too. That the Hollywood Vampires had bitten you and turned you into one of them. Or that a seagull tried to make a nest in your hair and got tangled in it.” Vince forced his hand away from his locks; he’d thought he’d cured himself of that habit. “Who was gonna midnight-barber you? Who was gonna introduce you to goth girls and make sure you got your daily minimum intake of strawberry bootlaces? Do they even have bootlaces in Los Angeles?” 

He was still stalling with jokes; the dubious but patient expression on Howard’s face reprimanded him for it. He dipped a toe in sincerity. “Did you. . . meet some nice people there? Make friends?”

“I met some good people. Made some lasting business connections.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know it’s not. But I’m not like you, Vince. A social life isn’t a high priority to me. I’d rather put in a good day’s work, then go home to my books and my records. I’d still rather spend an easy Saturday evening in the dark of a jazz club than cram myself into a dance club or a trendy bar.” 

Vince nodded. “I remember. But everybody needs friends, even Lone Wolf Moon. People to look after you, for you to look after. Like you did for me once.” 

“I’d like to look after you again. If it could be managed.”

Vince widened his eyes. That was the old Howard talking, not the actor. The Howard who let himself be vulnerable only when he was afraid. And only to Vince. “What would it take? For it to be managed?”

“We owe each other, Vince. We were bongo brothers once; I thought we would be for a lifetime. But we changed. Or let ourselves be changed by circumstances, other people.”

“No,” Vince said abruptly as a new beam of Sunshine filled his soul. “By ourselves. The things we thought we wanted, deserved. Things that would make us proud of ourselves. Things that would make us desirable.” He sighed and subconsciously twirled his hair again. “I got those things, Howard; you did too. Not in the way we’d planned, but we got them. Do you feel proud and desirable?”

“Sometimes,” Howard admitted. “The financial instability can be a problem, but sometimes I feel I do work to be proud of. I even like the attention, from a distance. But I’m ashamed too.”

“Ashamed? Of—?”

“The way I treated you, my mum and dad, my sisters. Bollo and Naboo, too. Even Lester and Bryan, a little bit. Like you were flotsam to be tossed overboard, once my ship set sail.” His cheeks reddened. “But mostly you.”

“I deserved to be thrown over. I was a massive ass in that last year. I wanted so bad to impress people, to be included. I thought I’d come so close. They came to my parties. They invited me to theirs. They laughed at my jokes and followed my fashions. Hot girls bought me drinks. I had Bryan and Leroy and Bollo and you, but it wasn’t enough. I think—I don’t know if I can explain it. I think I was afraid of being abandoned again, like my parents did to me. If I was pretty enough, funny enough, a leader in something—good in something—people would swarm around me and never leave me. I thought. But I found out I was exhausting myself trying to chase the latest and shiniest, and that some people choose their friends the way they choose their boots: whatever’s hot at the moment. To get thrown in the dust bin when it’s not shiny any more.”

“I never would’ve abandoned you, Vince.” He smiled sadly.

“That’s why I thought I could kick you around in front of the trendies. Show them how cool I was. Far above the berk in the old man’s hat, the little guy in the weird robes, the talking monkey. Newer than Bryan; harder. I wanted the trendies to think I could dump them just as easily as dumped these sad, bleak bottom feeders. And you most of all, because I didn’t want anyone to know I needed you.”

“I think I can understand that. It hurts to hear, but I think I understand. Are you apologizing, Vince?”

“Not yet. I haven’t earned the right to apologize yet.”

Now Howard’s smile was relaxed. They’d surmounted a huge hill. The rest of the climb would be easier.

Vince drew in a breath. “When Haabemaaster hired you, every memory of everything you’d ever done for me flew right out of my head. I was mad as hell, because I was jealous and afraid and I was getting kicked out of band after band. Even Bryan had moved on without me.”

“Replaced you with his new family. You felt abandoned.”

“And I guess I exploded. The worst of it came when you packed your suitcase and you took all your clothes.”

“Not that I had much to pack. Mobile man, ready for adventure at the drop of a penny.”

They both chuckled a little at the self-mockery before Vince drew in another breath to continue. “You were really going. I thought you’d chicken out at the last minute.. . or wake up and realize how much you needed me and ask me to go with you. When you got on the plane, I realized I wasn’t your choice. I wanted to come first in your life, but I wasn’t even a close second, and the worst of it was I deserved it.”

“The truth is, you were my first and only choice, Vince.” Howard paused, summoning something from deep within. “The truth is, I loved you. Yeah, in that way.”

Vince couldn’t stop himself: whether Howard welcomed the intrusion on his personal space at this time of intense confession or not, he was going to get cuddled. When he saw the determination with which Vince was approaching him, Howard moved aside, making space on the bed. He accepted the embrace and returned it. He’d changed, Vince saw, but not too much. “The truth is, I loved you too, in every way.” 

Vince rested his head against Howard’s shoulder. “I was a massive berk.”

“Are you still?” Howard smiled down on him. 

“Maybe half-massive.”

“Are you apologizing now?”

“Not yet.” He pressed his palm to Howard’s chest to feel the heartbeat through the cinnamon wool. “When that plane lifted, I kept thinking, any minute now it’s gonna circle back. Or he’ll throw on a parachute and jump. Any minute now. Then night fell and I had to walk away. I went home—well, back to the flat—and pried myself into the mirror ball suit and rang up the trendies. ‘Drinks on me.’ They all showed up for that. And I laughed and got so drunk they had to carry me out, and I puked in the alley and they laughed and left me there, and I cried behind the trash bins. And puked some more.”

“Even as I was fastening the seat belt, I had this hope, almost a sureness, that you would come running down the jetway, knock the flight attendants aside, yell at the cockpit to stop this plane! And throw yourself at my feet. ‘Either you’re coming home with me or I’m going with you,’ you’d yell. I’d unfasten my seat belt and reach out my arms and you’d sweep me up, carry me off while the passengers clapped.”  


“Too many viewings of _Officer and a Gentleman_.”

“Yeah. But you didn’t come. You didn’t even ring me and beg me to stay. I wanted to be wanted, but you let me go. After the plane got up in the air, I locked myself in the loo and cried.” 

“We’re both a couple of Weepy Wilmas.” Vince settled in deeper against Howard’s chest. “Thanks. I needed to hear that. Confirms my earlier assessment: I was a massive batty crease.” 

“Yeah, you were. I was no prize myself.”

They fell into silence, each reflecting on the past. 

“I think, though, what’s really massive is the way I stuck on my pride. After I got my head unstuck from my ass, I could see what I’d done. I should’ve apologized then but I wallowed in my ‘don’t you want me, baby’ self-pity and frustration. And embarrassment. And loneliness.”

“You are a complex man, Vince Noir. I could’ve apologized then too.”  
“Do you think we’ve changed? In the right way?”

“I think we ought to find out. Don’t you?”

“We have responsibilities.”

“Never imaged you’d be the one to say that. Maybe one of those responsibilities is us.”

“We have two days.”

“Which could become a week, if I cancel my trip to the Manchester Jazz Centre.”

“You could stay at mine. Two bedrooms and the plumbing doesn’t groan.”

“I’d like that, but later. I think it would be better if we spent a little time in the past first.”

“Howard?”

“Yes, little man?”

“I’m ready to apologize now.”

“Me too.”


	7. DECEMBER 25, 2019+

“You sneak out to a club last night?” His arms deep in dishwater and a “Kiss the Cook” apron tied round his waist, if an ape can be said to have a waist, Bollo greeted them when they emerged from the bedroom. 

“No, why?” Howard reached into the cupboard for his Dizzy Gillespie mug. He puzzled at it, turning it over in his hands, and made a little huff. “Thirteen years and they didn’t chuck it,” he said to himself. 

Bollo dripped as he gestured to the wall clock. “You sleep all morning, just like the party days.”

“I don’t party much any more,” Vince insisted. “I’m a responsible adult now. A mortgage holder, a tax payer, a lawn mower. Pour me a cup, would you, Howard? You want some toast?”

“Yeah, thanks. Hey, Naboo kept your Tweety Bird mug.” 

“Genius! Thanks, Bollo. I know you do all the washing up here.” Vince stationed himself at the toaster. 

“You have good talk last night?”

“Good talk.” Vince nodded. “Everything’s sorted out.” He glanced at Howard. “Wouldn’t you say, Howard? Apologies made and accepted. Explanations given. Guilt admitted. Understanding reached.”

“’Approached’ would be more accurate, but we’ve reestablished communications.”

“And exchanged phone numbers.” Vince caught the slices as they popped up. Automatically he reached for Nutella: he remembered Howard’s preferences. When Howard set a steaming cup before him, he saw that Howard had remembered Vince’s preferences too.

“All right, Howard?” He presented the Nutellaed toast on a plate. 

“All right, Vince.”  
–--  
The overnight holiday stretched into a week. Despite his complaints, Naboo allowed them to remain in the flat, and he and Bollo mostly went their own way, as in the old days. Further deep, late-night talks ensued, often on the couch, with reruns of _Columbo_ on the TV and Vince’s feet resting on Howard’s lap. As he fought off a yawn one night, Vince suggested, “We’ve both grown up, haven’t we? And that’s a good thing.”

“I’m beginning to think so.”  
–--  
Anybody else would have found the scene so absurd they’d have assumed their morning coffee had been spiked, but for Howard and Vince, it was a familiar start to a normal day. Sunshine poured into the flat from freshly washed windows (compliments of Howard, who’d borrowed a ladder from the shop next door) and London sparkled though a light new snow cover. The snow would melt by noon, but it was pretty to wake up to, Vince thought, and so was Howard. Hair limp and wet—he never could stand the heat of Vince’s Jacquettie hair dryer—modestly dressed down to his trainers, Howard emerged from the bath just as Vince emerged from the bedroom. They met in the hall and walked together to kitchen, where an ape sat reading the _London Times_. 

“Good mornin’, Bollo,” both men greeted. Howard poured the coffee while Vince manned the toaster. 

Bollo peered over his reading glasses. “Not good.” He jabbed his finger at the front-page headline. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

“What? Did your stock in Button Hooks By Us lose points?” 

“Vincey, small world getting smaller. Global economy these days. Worldwide trade. People flying from continent to continent don’t know what they’re doing. And government got its head in sand.” Bollo pushed Howard into a chair. “Bollo cook. You read.”

Howard obeyed, sipping on coffee and humming ominously. When he finished he lay the newspaper beside Vince’s plate. “I see what you mean, Bollo. Vince, you need to read this.” 

Vince considered it a lot of work to read newspapers; he’d rather keep with celebrity news, for the sake of giving his chat show viewers entertaining interviews. But he respected Howard’s opinion, so he fished out his reading glasses and went to work. After a while he raised his head. “Yeah, that’s tragic. Maybe I can organize a celebrity fundraiser.”

“It’s more than tragic, Vince. The whole world is at risk, including the UK and the US. This new virus in China, the World Health Organization is on alert. Viruses spread and this one’s moving across China like a bullet train.”

“Is it fatal?”

“Unknown. Scientists don’t know much about it yet; it’s new. They only know people have gotten very sick.”

Vince’s movements slowed as he Nutellaed the toast for Howard. “It’s terrible. But China’s half a world away. We’ll be safe, won’t we?”

“It’s contagious, Vince. Think about how many planes fly into Heathrow from China every day. Or LAX. Think about how many people you touch every day—you’re the touchiest person I know. That’s how colds get spread, and the flu.”

“I couldn’t do my job without shaking hands and hugging people,” Vince pondered. “It’s fifty percent of what I do to make them comfortable. I take a flu shot every year. Won’t that work?”

“Apparently not. They don’t know enough yet to manufacture a vaccine. Or to cure it.”

“Well, we’ve had disasters before. We’ll come through.” Vince brightened, “Maybe Naboo has a potion or a spell.” 

“How can he magic away an illness we don’t know anything about?” Howard’s eyes lit up. “Hey, Vince, you have a megaphone to the public ear. You could spread the word, make people aware of this virus.” 

“Hmm.” He studied the headline again, then tore the article out. “Maybe. I’ll talk to Chloe about it.” At Bollo’s questioning grunt, he explained, “Chloe Coogan. She produces my show.” With the flash of a grin, he reflected, “My show. Can you imagine? Vince Noir on the telly every night.” He scoured his hands with his napkin. “Maybe I’ll move from handshakes to air kisses. Nobody can complain about that, can they? It’s very metropolitan.”

“It’s very European,” Howard pointed out. “And now’s not the time to act European in Britain.” He pushed away from the table. “I don’t want any breakfast, Bollo. I think I’d rather take a long walk in the sunshine.” He stood. “Join me, little man?”

“I’m happy to walk with you.” Vince slid his hand into the crook of Howard’s arm. 

——  
He drove Howard to Highgate to meet Kadaway. The doorman, whose name Vince could never remember but who, fortuitously, wore a badge, nodded to them as they came in. “Mr. Noir, good morning.” Vince introduced Howard to the doorman, so there would be no problem if Howard visited again. After similar introductions between Howard and dog (each approved of the other), they strapped the pack onto the dog’s back and had him carry a Thermos of hot tea while they walked him on the heath. “I’m kinda surprised you chose a dog, Vince. I always pictured cats for you. You’re rather catlike yourself.”

“He chose me. I always pictured dogs for you: a red retriever, stretched out across the hearth, while master reads Dickens beside the crackling fire.”

“A lovely picture.” Howard seemed to want to say more about the fantasy, but he closed his mouth. The tension slid from Vince’s shoulders: had Howard thought to include a domesticated Vince beside that fire, stroking a black cat on his lap and reading _Cheekbone_?

Back at home, Howard investigated the techy appliances and the cooking gadgets, admiring even those that Vince couldn’t identify, then threw a light lunch together from his pantry discoveries. Though Howard was impressed with Chandler Court, he again refused Vince’s suggestion that they spend the week there. “This is new.” Howard ran his hand over the marble countertop. “Right now, I need a bit of the old.” 

“Hey Howard.” Vince licked a noodle dangling from his soup spoon. “Remember the time we had that soup?”

“That was brilliant.” 

“Classic times.”

“Crazy days.”

Driving back, Vince pointed out a sleek block-long shop painted sophisticated black. Its windows and doors were trimmed with a hint of gold; a gold pair of ribbon-cutting scissors informed passersby that this was a hair salon; nothing else here suggested the shop’s purpose. Delicate gold lettering above the windows suggested, rather than proclaimed, that the owner’s name was Jacquettie. Vince pulled into the parking lot hidden behind the building. “Hey Howard, remember when I used say ‘Someday Jean-Claude will cut my hair?”

“I remember.”

“Well, now his son does.” Vince grinned proudly as he waited for a reaction.

“That’s excellent, Vince. You’ve achieved one of your ambitions.”

“I could get you in. Not today, of course, but before you leave. A shampoo and a cut—you’ll feel like the angels are massaging your scalp. And then,” his tone shifted to one of hope, “he’s every bit the genius his father was, but he takes the time to really understand the client, get to know your lifestyle and your philosophy—”

“Philosophy of haircuts?”

“Hair care. So he can recommend the perfect style. He’s the busiest stylist in London, but he’ll always set aside time for his best clients. I could ring him this afternoon; I’m sure he’ll take you.”

Howard answered slowly. “For a shampoo, a cut and a styling?”

“It’s amazing how refreshed you’ll feel. People will insist you must’ve lost ten pounds or had a facelift. Let me—”

Howard lowered his gaze to his clenched hands. “No.”

“Why not? Look, yeah, it’s expensive, but you wouldn’t ask how much the _Mona Lisa_ costs, would you? Anyway, I’ll have him put it on my tab.”

“No. It’s not about money. I like myself just fine the way I am, Vince.” There was a catch in his voice. “I wish you did.”

“I do, I really do! I just—I’m trying to help. I.. . .”

So quietly that Vince could barely hear, Howard concluded the debate. “You. Yeah, you. Not me. Let’s go home, Vince.” 

Vince started the engine. “I’m sorry, Howard.”

Intentionally, he took the long way home, allowing Howard time to forgive and forget. Maybe just forgive—Howard’s elephantine memory never forgot. He tried humming the Yeti song in the hope that Howard would jump in, but the latter just looked out the window. Vince couldn’t quite tell Howard’s mood. 

“Hey, Vince.” Howard’s tone was subdued but curious. “What’s that?”

Vince removed his gaze from the road to squint at a weather-worn building they were passing. He couldn’t look long enough to read the sign above the doors. “Don’t know.”

“Angel Unaware. Heard of that before?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering. There are a lot of people standing outside.”

“Wonder why.”

Howard usually couldn’t resist speculation (“A Man of Hypotheses,” he liked to call himself, when he wasn’t busy being an Action Man), but this time he didn’t take the bait. Vince let the silence hang. 

As he parked in the alley behind the Nabootique, he tried to formulate an apology. He always struggled with words when emotion tripped him up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, you know. Can I make it up to you?”

“It’s all right.” Howard squeezed his knee. “You know what? Let’s see if Naboo could use a little help around the shop.” He climbed out of the car. “Then we can watch the Baby Yoda show.”

“Genius,” Vince approved. “But I really am sorry.”

“I know you are.”

Cuddling on the couch after a dirty day of cleaning the shop, both pretended to have forgotten their disagreement.


	8. DECEMBER 29, 2019

Bollo shook his head sadly, muttering to Naboo, “Bollo cook three hours, all of Vincey’s favorites and one or two of Harold’s.”

“And do they even notice?” Naboo finished the thought. “The ballbags yammer on their phones and don’t touch their meal.”

“You’re right.” Howard walked into the kitchen. “Excuse me, Bollo. I was talking to Tim Burton.” He paused for them to look up and ask for details, but Bollo poked at his mashed potatoes and Naboo twisted the cap off another Zima. “Tim Burton, the director. We’re discussing a possible project. Nothing definite; just kicking some ideas around.” He paused again; still no reaction. “Among them, a remake of _The Headless Horseman_.” 

“Hi,” Vince’s warm voice interrupted. “Sorry I’m late.” He slid into his chair and grabbed a napkin for his lap. “Mashed potatoes! Mushy peas! Just like the old days. Cheers, Bollo!”

Howard sighed a sigh only Vince heard. Mustache twitching, he sat down and helped himself to a pork pie. 

“What was your phone call about, Vince?” Naboo queried.

“The NHS. They’re sending the Chief of Infectious Diseases to my show next month. I’m giving him ten minutes at the top.” Chewing, he accepted congratulations for his cutting-edge social awareness. He was pleased, of course, but he felt uncomfortable, selfish. . . .”Howard, did I hear you say ‘Tim Burton’?” 

Howard brightened. “I did.”

“Well, come on, don’t be a clam hiding her pearl. Tell us.”

Howard replied with a soft smile. “Thanks, Vince. Well, he wanted to take a meeting after I get back to LA. . . .”

—- —

Alone in their bedroom that night, with only the moon to hear them, it was time for more frank talk. 

“I almost got married once,” said Howard. “I thought you should hear it from me; it’s in my Wikipage.”

The nasty little sprite that liked to play with Vince’s heart when he could get away with it bit on Vince’s inner ear: see! He doesn’t need you. There were others. What if he still loves her (him)?

But Vince beat the bitch back with a blast of manufactured sunshine. “I see,” was all he could manage. “I’m glad you found someone that made you happy.”

“She did. She looked up to me.” He sounded bewildered. “She let me teach her—cooking, music. She let me take care of her. She thought I was handsome.”

“You are.” Vince brushed a curl from Howard’s ear, soothing them both.

“I didn’t know that what I felt for her wasn’t the kind of love I felt for you. It had been years since I’d seen you. I proposed. She was thrilled. I was happy that I’d made her happy. I hoped it was a good foundation to build a marriage.”

“But?”

“It wasn’t. As we started making preparations for the wedding I realized, a little at a time, it wasn’t the right kind of love. Something came along to show me.”

“What was that?”

“Your voice. One night, I couldn’t sleep. I clicked around on the telly. I had the sound down low, but a shiver went up my spine as soon as you spoke. You were talking to Felicity Kendal. It didn’t matter what about. I heard your voice; that was enough. I remembered a different kind of love.”

“How did you tell her?”

“I couldn’t make up an excuse, could I? She loved me. I think. I told her the truth. She didn’t understand.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“No. But I’m glad I didn’t marry her and hurt her worse.”

“I chose people who didn’t want it to last, because I didn’t. Usually. I thought I was Peter Pan, you know? They didn’t want to be Wendy.” Vince added ruefully, “I suppose it’s in my Wikipage too, if I have one.”

“Were there blokes?”

“A few. But that didn’t feel right either.”

“I’m glad it feels right with me. Is there a term for us?”

“Boyfriends?”

“I mean, I've never really desired anyone but you. I don't think I can. Just a Noirian, I suppose.”

“Then I’m a Moonie.” Vince tucked his arm in Howard’s and rested his head on his shoulder. “There is a term, Howard: in love.”


	9. FLASHBACKS 2008+

**FLASHBACK: Sometime in MARCH 2008**  
Vince was waiting outside Cafe Cafe, Camden’s newest, and for the moment, trendiest gourmet restaurant, where Vince was to meet his newest, and for the moment, trendiest girlfriend. They’d met two weeks ago in a dance club, naturally, and when as an introduction she’s grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his face down to snog him silly, he’d invited himself back to hers. As he hailed a taxi it was then that he thought to ask her name. In the street noise (and then there was the little matter of the partial hearing loss in his right ear) he didn’t catch it, but never mind. She led him back to hers, a typical uni-girl flat that she shared with—well, he wasn’t sure how many other people lived there and how many were just hanging out. She took him directly back to her bedroom, shooed out another girl, then shagged him til his teeth rattled. 

He wasn’t sure if she knew who he was. Never mind, he wasn’t sure who he was either.

She found a bottle of wine somewhere and they talked (conveniently avoiding using names). She claimed she was a fine arts major and had gone to one of his gallery showings once, to write a term paper about it, but when she got up to use the loo, he wandered around the flat in search of art projects. He’d found neither paint brushes or sculpting clay. Well, maybe she was a performance artist.

It occurred to him later that for an art major, she didn’t seem much interested in talking about art. Nevertheless, he invited her to a show by one of his performance artist friends on Saturday night. She accepted, of course. When he left the flat, he paused long enough to ask one of the flatmates for the girl’s name. Three days later, he couldn’t remember the answer. He’d had to sneak a look in her purse when she got up to use the loo. 

Over the next week he’d struggled to find something they could talk about, then decided it was too much bother; they spent most of their dates in noisy clubs anyway. She didn’t ask him about himself. He wondered if she thought she already knew everything, maybe from _The Sun_. She was young and pretty beneath the coat of makeup (not that he had a right to complain in that regard) and he didn’t mind the photogs taking their picture. 

It was a cold day, so he decided he’d wait for her inside. Bryan would’ve chewed his ear off for the breach, but she didn’t seem the kind of girl who took notice of etiquette anyway, nor was she likely to have even heard of Bryan. The restaurant was crowded, but a glance around clued Vince in that it wouldn’t be so for long. In a month or so, a newer, trendier place would open. The waiter who led him to a center table, like all the wait staff, was young and good-looking (everybody these days seemed young), so he did what people expected him to do: he chatted the youngster up, just enough to be polite but not so much as to indicate he had plans for more. 

His girl showed up late, just as the waiter was suggesting he go ahead and order—adding that he’d be off duty soon and would be happy to spend the rest of the evening with Vince. The boy brazenly looked him up and down. She came up behind the waiter and brazenly looked him up and down. As she slid into the booth next to Vince, she seemed to make up her mind about something. She winked at the waiter. “Why not?” She eyed the dinners that nearby diners were enjoying and snorted. “Let’s get some fish and chips and go back to mine.” 

“Oh! Erm,” Vince shrugged her hand off his arm. “I’ll pass.”

She grabbed the waiter’s palm and wrote an address into it. “Meet me here when you get off.” The girl slid out of the booth, announcing to Vince, “I was about done with you anyway. You’re boring!” Both men watched her leave, then the waiter turned back to Vince. “Ready to order?”

\--–  
“Vincey sure know how to pick ‘em,” was all Bollo said when Vince rang him up. 

“Yeah, but she was well fit.”

“Did she break Vincey’s heart?”

“I didn’t know her well enough for that.” He gave the matter some thought. “I’m not sure I remember her name.”  
\--- ,b>FLASHBACK: Sometime in 2009  
“You know, if you wore your hair like this—” Vince leaned over the bar-height table to make the adjustments. “There.” He leaned back, grinning his patented grin. “Better. And I know a brilliant manicurist who can straighten out those nails—”

“You shallow son of a bitch.” The woman backed away from the table and threw a wadded cocktail napkin at him. It landed in his flirtini. “I’m trying to get to know you, like a person, and all you care about is how we look to them.” She glared at the paparazzo who was pointing a Nikon at them. “Isn’t there anything more to you than, than ‘cheeky fringe’ and guyliner?” Before he could answer, she stormed out of the club, purposely knocking her shoulder into the Nikon.

“Am I a son of a bitch?” He texted Bollo. “Or just shallow?” He watched her go: a shame; he’d actually found something to talk about with this one.

—--  
**FLASHBACK: Sometime in 2010**  
“A jazz club?! You must be joking! Oh, wait, I get it: you’re cutting the edge of trends again, aren’t you, Vince? A’right then, let’s go. If anyone knows what’s the next hot thing, it’s you.”

—  
“Don’t ever take me back there again. That’s one trend not even you can get Camden to accept. You’re out of it, Vince, if you actually like that crap. Way out of it. You know what? Don’t call me any more.”  
—

“Oh, Vince, you’re so cute. No, I don’t want to go out; theater’s well boring. Take me to bed, Vince. No, sex is not all I want you for. But what if it is? You’re amazing in bed.”  
—-  
**FLASHBACK: Sometime in 2011**

“Who is this Howard you keep talking about? Really? Well, he’s gone and I’m here, so love the one you’re with, huh?”

**FLASHBACK: Sometime in 2012**

“With my sister? How could you?” 

—-  
**FLASHBACK: Sometime in APRIL 2013**

“Vincey’s birthday come soon.”

“Don’t remind me.” Vince distracted himself with rearranging the tie tree. As usual, the Nabootique was devoid of customers, but those who had been there had apparently taken an interest in the hand-painted ties, because they’d made quite a mess of them. 

“Vince never used to talk like that. Vince used to get excited for his birthday.”  


Vince sighed, “Vince didn’t used to be 40.” Howard would’ve liked this tie. Vince would have given it to him as a birthday gift—Howard would’ve loved anything Vince had painted just for him. Or for that matter, any remembrance of his birthday that came from Vince. Howard’s birthday was two weeks ago. Who had been there to celebrate with him?

The shop bell tinkled and a well-dressed gentleman entered. He raised an eyebrow at Bollo but nodded at Vince. “All right, mate?” His accent identified him as South London, but his clothes identified him as a businessman of some sort. Middle management; his suit was a year old and off-the-rack. Vince nodded back and granted him the patented-I-don’t-know-you-but-I-might-like-to smile. 

The businessman joined him at the tie tree. “Interesting ties.” He fingered the silk of one.

“Vince paints ‘em,” Bollo commented, “by hand.” Bollo seldom got this far with a prospective customer: they usually took one look and ran out. Encouraged, he suggested, “Buy one, get one half price.” Wisely, he remained behind the counter.

The businessman offered his hand. “Hello, Vince.” The handshake took a few seconds longer than it should have. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

Vince blushed just enough to appear modest. “Telly. I have a chat show.”

“Interesting.” The man’s eyes wandered across the ties, then across Vince’s body. “I’ll bet you have some stories to tell.”

“A few.” 

“Maybe you could tell me a few over coffee, or do you need to rush off?” He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“I’m going nowhere at the moment. There’s a nice coffee shop around the corner.” 

“Very good. Shall we go?” 

At least, before this one stormed out (“All you’re on about is clothes and clubs! There’s nothing to you, Vince!”) Vince had learned his name.  
–--

 **FLASHBACK: Many Times, 2014-6**  
“You lied to me. You claim to be an artist, but you don’t know a Kusama from a Koons. Your own art is derivative of painters from forty years ago, and it has nothing to say. What you draw is cartoons, silly, pointless cartoons. You’re nothing more than a cartoon yourself, Vincent. Mickey Mouse, to be specific.”

“I thought I liked you, Vince. I really thought we had a connection. But I get up to say hello to my friends and I come back and find you with another boy wrapped all over you.” 

\---

“Who’s this Howard bloke you keep whinging about?”  
\--- 

“You’re an hour late. I spent all day cooking and you don’t even bother to call. And for what, a shoe sale?! This is the third time, Vince. I’m an anesthesiologist. Don’t you think my time is worth as much as yours?” 

\---

“You can’t even remember a simple thing like Valentine’s Day? You’re so inconsiderate, Vince Noir.”

\---

“Because I have to go see my mum. She’s still in hospital. You never even ask about her. Don’t you care about me, Vince?”

\---

Vince’s love life could be boiled down to a single Queen song: “Another One Bites the Dust.”

—-

 **FLASHBACK: Sometime in 2017**  
It went against Vince’s personal policy, kinda sorta: he never dated a guest from his show, or a guest or a star from someone else’s show. Things like that could mess up a career, especially his: he was usually hired because of his likability quotient, with both co-performers and viewers. He’d seen it happen once or twice, a performer’s career coming to a screeching halt because he/she had broken up with a better liked performer. He wouldn’t let it happen to him; his career was the major portion of his life. 

But this one time, he allowed himself to, not exactly step over the line, but slide a foot across: the gent was the agent of a big-name musician who was appearing on the show. And it wasn’t that the agent was irresistibly attractive; most people wouldn’t find him attractive at all: he was tall, yes, but his shoulders slumped a bit, and his mustache was neither trendy nor ironic, and under his carefully arranged curly hair was a little bald spot, and there were firm, undeniable wrinkles at his mouth and brow and corners of his eyes. Then there was that very ordinary Yorkshire accent that he hadn’t bothered to correct. But to an artist, the agent’s face was fascinating, sharp angles and deep-set dark eyes that under the studio lights appeared to have specks of gold in them, while beyond the lights, appeared devil-dark. The agent’s best feature was his smile, which came easily for everyone, no matter the person’s rank, and seemed to have two dozen different shapes in its repertoire. Vince wanted to study that smile for a while; maybe that was why he asked the agent our for dinner after the show, despite the fact that he knew better than to trust agents. Or maybe the trust factor was why Vince asked him out—he wouldn’t get too deeply involved with someone he couldn’t trust. The relationship, if one developed, would be carefree, with few expectations and an unspoken understanding that it could end without explanation at any time. 

It wasn’t that Vince didn’t want to settle down. Approaching 50, he had daydreamed about sharing a home with someone, having someone to greet him at the front door with a kiss, hold his hand when he was nervous, stroke his hair when he was crying. He’d had all that, once. Now he’d like to have it again, but with some strings attached, like a shared mortgage or kids or a wedding certificate. That was what he wanted, he had confessed to Bryan, but it wasn’t what he was meant to have. His track record proved that. So the man who couldn’t be trusted started a relationship with another who couldn’t be trusted, and they had a wonderful time: dinner in fine restaurants, West End theater, cocktail parties, gallery openings, charity events, dancing in the dark. They bought each other inexpensive little just-because gifts; they remembered and honored each other’s birthdays. They had an “our song” and an “our film.” They looted each other’s closets and always ordered the “shareables” plate at their favorite restaurant. They were careful not to criticize each other’s clothes or haircuts or weight gains or idiosyncrasies or ask about exes. They had all the trappings of a love life; even their co-workers were fooled. But they never talked about mortgages or kids or meeting one another’s parents, and they never mentioned the word love. When it was over, it was over cleanly, no tears, no broken lamps or stolen keepsakes. 

Except, for Vince, it still hurt. And he didn’t understand why. 

—-

 **FLASHBACK: LATE 2018**  
“Here, you have a smudge on your cheek. Let me get that. So, Vince. Let’s get right to it, shall we? You used to be quite the lad-about-town. Last year alone, you appeared sixteen times on our ‘Star Sightings’ page. We haven’t heard a peep from you in months. Are you ill or just bored with the local scenery?”

He gave the reporter a cheeky little grin—it was what she and her photog had come for. “Why, is that your subtle way of asking if I’m available?”

—  
**FLASHBACK: MAY 21, 2019**

“Vince’s birthday today.”

“Yeah. Thanks for remembering, Bollo. Howard’s was two weeks ago.” 

“Howard never call. Come by shop; I cook nice dinner for you.”

“Thanks, Bollo, maybe Saturday. I have to work today.” 

“Awww, who’s gonna give Vince cake on this special day? Vincey should have cake.” 

Vince picked up on the implied question. “No, Bollo, I’m not dating anyone right now. The staff will have a cake for me and Bryan will send presents. Not that I should be eating cake anyway. I’m getting middle-age spread.”

“You come Saturday. Bollo will have nice lunch waiting—and chocolate cake with Gummy Bears on top, like the old days.”

Not like the old days. Because Howard wouldn’t be there.


	10. JANUARY 2, 2020

On the morning when Howard had to fly back to LA, Vince drove him to the airport. “You know, I think you shouldn’t have canceled your Mytaxi service,” Howard commented dryly, earning himself a punch in the arm. “You ever thought about moving your show to LA?”

“That could be interesting. You ever thought about auditioning for _Coronation Street_ or _Doctor Who_?” 

“Maybe.”

“When will you be back in England?”

“My mum’s birthday. That was the plan, anyway.”

“August,” Vince winced. “Let me rephrase. When will you have a break between projects?”

“March. Six weeks off, then I’ve got a meeting with Tim Burton.”

“Not so long to wait.” 

“When does your show go on hiatus?”

“June.”

“Oh.” Howard shifted in the passenger seat. “Well, there’s always Skype.”

“What’s that, a trendy airline?”

“Ask your production crew.” He stared out the window for a long moment. “You’d have fun in LA.”

“Yeah.” Vince found a space in the drop-off lane and parallel parked, smirking as he shifted gears. “Still want to criticize my driving?”

“No. You’re okay, Vince. We’re okay.” He reached for the door handle.

Vince seized his coat sleeve. “Wait.”

“What?”

“A proper goodbye.” He leaned over the gear box. Hand firmly planted on Howard’s shoulder so he couldn’t escape, Vince planted a hasty kiss on Howard’s lips. Releasing Howard, he leaned back, smiling his confuser smile, the self-protective one that implied he might be joking. “All right, Buffalo Man?”

“Oh.” Howard blinked, then opened the door and motioned to a porter to fetch his suitcase from the boot. He looked back with a wicked grin, then ducked back into the car long enough to seize Vince’s scarf and drag him in for a kiss. “Bye, Little Man.” He shut the door and followed the porter without looking back.

It was Vince’s turn to blink.


	11. FLASHBACK:  2019

**FLASHBACK: APRIL 5, 2019**

Instead of meeting in their usual lunch spot (Clove Club) at their usual time (3pm on the first Friday of each month), Vince’s agent invited him to her own home in Highgate for drinks and dinner. _Noir at Night_ filmed four days a week, with two shows shot on Thursdays—Vince had required it to be in his contract, so that he’d have a little time to accept other jobs (or shop and party). When he accepted Charis’s invitation, he assumed this would be a semi-formal dinner party, perhaps with some industry people that she wanted him to meet, in pursuit of a small film role or a television appearance or (fingers crossed) an MC gig at one of the big rock festivals. He dressed to surprise—in a suit and tie (one of his hand-painted originals)—with a hint of eyeliner. It was his way of throwing a spanner into what he expected to be an otherwise dull business dinner. Charis was a highly effective agent, always open for challenges (knowing Vince had a tendency to slack off when under-challenged) and always aware of the Big Picture in Vince’s career, but amusing, she was not. 

But it was his turn to be surprised. 

Instead of her catering staff, Charis herself met him at the front door and directed him to the living room—which was empty of guests. Her wife, usually playing bartender, was nowhere to be seen; Charis herself poured him a drink (she forgot to ask him what he’d like, but that was all right: she’d known him long enough to guess right). Instead of the usual inane chatter, as soon as he’d sipped his drink she ushered him into her study, and here was—well, he assumed—one of the other guests, drink in hand. A tray of hors d’oeuvres sat on a coffee table positioned before the Chesterfield sofa (brown; everything in this office was brown or beige). Also on the coffee table lay a file folder.

“Am I early?” Vince wondered, then nodded hello to the other guest, a middle-aged man, who rose to return the nod. “Hi, I’m Vince.”

“No,” Charis assured him. “Sit down, please.” She dragged a chair from her desk toward the coffee table. “Vince, this is Otto.” As the men shook hands, she seated herself, tucking her skirt under her. Her eyes were bright, though there was a slight crease in her forehead and her mouth was a straight, red-lipped line. “We have some business to tend to first, then we’ll go in to dinner.”

“Just us? No other guests?”

“Not tonight. Vince, Otto works for a new television series that will debut in January. That’s all I can say about it. I can’t reveal to you what his position is, yet.” 

Vince thought Otto looked more like a Liverpudlian barber than a TV executive; his off-the-rack suit was about five years behind the times and quite worn (Vince thought if he met Otto again, he’d bring him some elbow patches from the Nabootique). The man didn’t look like an Otto, either, more like a Jake or Deke. Otto wasn’t smiling either. Vince thought back: he hadn’t dropped too many f-bombs on his show recently and he hadn’t been photographed dancing on top of bars in ages, so what was he in trouble for? And why did Otto go to Charis with his complaint, not someone at the BBC? Vince usually liked surprises, but this one held no appeal. “What’s going on?”

“Before I can answer that question,” Otto dragged the file folder toward him and opened it to reveal a stapled pair of papers, “I must ask you to sign this. It’s an NDA.”

“NDA?” Now Vince was heating up. “Am I in legal trouble?”

“No, Vince,” said Otto, “this is a job offer.”

“A what?”

“A television appearance. We’ll shoot around your schedule. The job will last a maximum of four weeks, perhaps less, depending. We are offering this much.” Otto slid a sticky note toward Vince, who glanced at it, raised his eyebrows and glanced again. Otto took the sticky note back and pocketed it. “You will be paid the full amount whether you make one appearance or all eight. And that is all I can say, until you’ve signed the NDA.” 

“I signed it too. Everything said in this room will stay in this room. Not even family, best friends, the media, the staff on your show or the executives at BBC can know about this. This NDA will hold even if you decline the job offer,” Charis explained. 

“Even after you sign,” Otto pushed the paperwork toward Vince, “what I can tell you right now is very limited. Information will come on a need-to-know basis. Please read and sign.” Otto presented him with a pen.

Vince scanned the document twice. He’d signed a few NDAs before; this was like the others, nothing suspicious, just an agreement between him and a production company called Bandicoot for a show to air of ITV. If he decided to take the job, Charis would have to get the BBC legal team to allow him to work for their competitor. He was confident Chloe wouldn’t object as long as this job didn’t interfere with _Noir at Night_ ; he’d done tons of game shows with her blessing. She saw it as another way to promote their show. As he scribbled his signature beneath Charis’s on the second page, he decided to break the stiffness in the room with some humor. It nearly always worked. . . .”Wait. I think I know what this is about. You’re offering me a job with MI6. Am I going to Russia? Because I don’t think my comedy would go over well in North Korea.” 

Charis chuckled—she had to; she was helping him get a job—and Otto cracked a smile. “This is what we’re looking for, a lively imagination and a charming sense of humor. And, as you’ve surmised, a high regard for secrecy.”

“Come on, you can tell me now.” Vince shoved the papers back. “You want me for the next James Bond, right? I’m replacing Daniel Craig. I can do a genius Scottish accent, if you want to go old school.”

Otto examined Vince’s signature, then tucked the papers back into their folder and slid it into a briefcase at his feet. “Now.” He signed and rubbed his hands on his trousers, as if ridding his hands of some unpleasant substance. “I’ll tell you what I can; more to come after you’ve signed the contract, if you take the offer. Let’s start with this: you will be working undercover, but we’ll be sending you to Bovingdon.”

—  
**FLASHBACK: JUNE 6, 2019**

He’d rung first. Even though Bryan was slowly moving his career in the direction of retirement (he was, after all, 73 years old and after 30 million albums sold and a CBE earned, he deserved to put his feet up—as a hint for which, Vince had bought him an ergonomic recliner), he still had a busy life that required scheduling. So Vince had rung up, gotten himself on that schedule for a day that suited his own schedule and now was pulling up into the circular drive to the house. A dungareed figure, a spade in hand and a broad-brimmed straw hat shielding the eyes, was hunched over a row of geraniums lining the sidewalk. A little pile of dirt and weeds sat in a pail near the figure’s knee. 

Vince’s first instinct was to call the figure off, argue with him that he was too old to be digging in the dirt and besides, what was he paying the gardener for, if he insisted on doing the weeding himself? But Bryan would only take insult at the implied accusation of frailty and, worse, wasting money. Besides, Bryan got as much renewal from gardening as the plants did, so Vince merely greeted him in the customary South London fashion. “All right, Bryan?”

Bryan shoved his hat back to see better. “Vince! Good to see you, my boy.”

There were two things about that greeting that disturbed Vince slightly: first, at nearly fifty, Vince was much closer to “old man” status than to boyhood, and second, that Bryan sounded surprised. Had he forgotten Vince was coming? As much as he could, Vince kept a close watch his adoptive father for signs like forgetting directions or losing keys. He dared to ask, “Did you forget I was coming?”

“No, of course not.” Bryan sat back on his knees and stuck the spade into the bucket. “Just lost track of time. You know how I get when I garden.”

“Or paint or write music,” Vince agreed. Distraction during these tasks had always been normal for Bryan, so Vince assured himself he had nothing to worry about in this regard. Bryan stretched out a hand and Vince took it, hauling him up. The men walked into the house. They paused in the foyer, Bryan to take off his hat and hook it on the coat rack, Vince to give his eyes time to adjust to the dimmer light indoors—and to look over the ground floor. 

Bryan chuckled in understanding. “Mrs. Paddington is upstairs, cleaning. We’ll have the kitchen to ourselves.”

They could have settled in the big study with its traditional lord-of-the-manor décor and its framed gold records on the walls, but that room was where Bryan took lawyers and record company executives; it was a place of business, not warmth. They could have settled into the parlor, but that was the room that Bryan’s ex-wife had used for entertaining when she and Bryan were still married, and it didn’t feel comfortable to either of them, especially with Vince’s tendency to spill his tea when he got over-excited. The kitchen, however, though it had always been the housekeeper’s domain—or perhaps because it had been the housekeeper’s domain; back in the days when Bernice, and after her, Thea took care of the house and its occupants—felt cozy and sunny and always smelled friendly (despite Mrs. Paddington’s disinfectants). Whether it was to chat about his day at school or to chastise him for arguing with his art teacher or to have The Talk, this had always been the safe room for father and son. There is very little in life, Bryan liked to quote his mother as saying, that a cup of tea can’t make better. Everyone who’d lived or worked in this house had recognized the kitchen as Vince and Bryan’s safe space, where they were to be left undisturbed, even if they were just nattering on about the superiority of the da Vinci 4221 series over all other oil brushes. 

So they settled into the kitchen, Bryan plating some pastries as Vince poured, and they exchanged the how-are-you’s, which these days served a genuine purpose beyond good manners, as both men were climbing the slope of aging. As they eased into chairs, Bryan nudged the conversation toward its purpose. “So, Vince, what’s up?”

With a butter knife Vince sliced a raspberry Zinger precisely in two (he measured to be sure). Half went into his mouth; the other half became the engine car for a train of chocolate Zingers. Bryan watched without comment: since the days his motor skills were established well enough to grasp, Vince had always had something occupying his hands and working out the inescapable images filling and spilling out of his imagination. It was a habit Bryan shared: spades, paint brushes, pencils, piano keys. 

“I can’t tell you.” Vince hooked on the last chocolate freight car, then neatly sliced a second raspberry Zinger, half for the caboose and half for his mouth. “Not all of it. Yet. Next year. What I can say is that I’ve been given a temporary chance to kind of revive my music career. Well, no. I’ve been given a temporary chance to do a little singing. In public. And that’s all I can say about it.”

“But you have questions.”

“Yeah.” Now he trimmed off the uneven edges of a lemon danish. “This project started last Friday. There’s a vocal coach and others. I, ah, it’s been a long time since I did any real singing, you know. Anything sustained. Just, you know, a song here and there on the show, but that’s been just for laughs. Part of a skit, usually. Well, there was the one time that Kylie Minogue got me to sing ‘Do Bears’ with her. But that was for laughs.”

Bryan nodded. He’d learned long ago that it was best to let Vince fumble around a bit, when confronted with an unpleasant topic. Eventually Vince would get to the point and be open and honest about it, if he was allowed to find his own way first. 

Vince lifted the lemon danish close to his face, examining it as if it were an unpolished diamond and he the jeweler. Then he gave his head a sharp shake and tossed the danish back onto the platter and selected a blueberry one. It got trimmed into symmetry. “But we’re, I’m, rehearsing and the vocal coach. . .. .I’m getting better in that regard. I don’t have the range or the strength that I used to, but I’d like to think I’m bringing something else to the table to compensate.”

Bryan nodded again. “It happens to all vocalists. What we lose in physicality, we gain in emotional depth.”

“Yeah. That’s it, emotional depth. You know more about life. You can see more, see the complexities, all the facets. The same with painting.” 

“Yes.” Bryan watched as Vince studied the kitchen table, moved the platter aside, re-positioned the salt and pepper shakers.

“Well, so I’ve been listening to the recordings of my singing. I’m applying what I’m being taught. I’m exercising my voice every day. I can hear myself getting stronger, but,” he shrugged. He set the danish down with the shakers behind it. He glanced up, just a glance as if he expected Bryan to take up the butter knife and rap his knuckles with it. He blurted, “I don’t think any amount of exercise or coaching can make me a singer.”

Vince watched relief flash across Bryan’s face, then sympathy. But there was no denial, no debate in Bryan’s expression, and so he knew his assessment was correct. This was the first time he’d said it aloud: he couldn’t sing. Not, anyway, well enough to deserve to front a band. “I joined my first band when I was fourteen,” Vince said softly. 

“You tried.” Bryan agreed. “You gave it a good go. But the truth is, there was something missing.”

“Commitment, for one,” Vince confessed. “When I was supposed to be rehearsing, I was off partying. I told myself that’s what the frontman is supposed to do, chat people up, bring in the crowds with his charm and good looks.”

“The charm came easily to you. You can get the most closed-mouthed celebrities to spill their guts. You could charm national secrets out of the most seasoned MI6 agent.” Bryan shook his head, remembering. “When you were little, Mrs. Moon had to hide your birthday presents at her house for me. Otherwise, you would have wheedled them out of me.”

“Thanks, Bryan.”

“I remember once when John and Yoko came to dinner. You were about seven years old at the time. I had the biggest executives from EMI here, and Cliff Richard and Gerry Marsden, and everyone was scared to death of John. I was too; we’d all seen examples of his biting sarcasm. We’d all been targets of it. I’d tucked you into bed, I thought, but the next thing I knew, there you were, climbing up into Yoko’s lap and asking her if she liked to paint too because you’d heard us say she was an artist. And then she and John were feeding you canapes and explaining to you about performance art. They fell in love with you, Vince. Everyone does.”

Vince blushed. He began rearranging the cars on his Zinger train. “I do all right. But it’s not like singing or painting or whatever. I just—I’m okay, and I enjoy those things, but I’m not, I don’t know, they’re not going to hang me in the Tate, are they, and the Queen will never give me a CBE for my singing.” He placed his cake train in a semi-circle around the blueberry lake and its accompanying twin silos of salt and pepper. 

“Is that what matters to you, son?”

Vince sat back with a sigh. “You know what I mean. It’s not that I want awards. It’s that I want to be good. And I realize that part of the problem is I never worked at any of it, not the way you do, not even as much as Howard does. But I think the reason I never put in the work was that I knew, deep down, I didn’t have the talent.”

“Your talent is elsewhere. It’s with people. I’ve always thought you would make a good psychologist. But books weren’t your joy, nor was music or even painting. Your joy was people. You’ve seen it in me and other musicians, how we can get lost in the music; we can play for hours with no sense of the passing of time. The music isn’t work to us; it’s our joy. The same happens to you: you get absorbed when you’re with people, whether it’s one on one, or on stage.” Bryan sat back, hands folded over his stomach as he thought. “Some of the most successful frontmen I know aren’t really musicians, they’re entertainers. They learn enough about music to use it as their medium, but they would’ve been just as happy and just as successful if they’d stumbled into another medium. Entertaining people is their passion and their talent, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. It’s just as rare to find a talented entertainer as a musician or painter or a whatever. And entertainers create something that people need, just like other artists. Do you see? Just ask their fans. Ask your fans.” 

A smile tugged at Vince’s lips. “They gathered outside my flat on my birthday. Baked a cake, drew cards, sang me ‘Happy Birthday,’ even though it was ten o’clock on a weeknight and they should’ve been in bed.”

“What you give them couldn’t be more valuable to them if it was a song or a painting.” 

Vince pushed his cake train around the raspberry lake as he considered. 

“I’ve seen your pay stubs, son. The production company wouldn’t pay you like that if your work wasn’t valuable.”

“I had to know,” Vince said at last. “That’s why.. . I wondered, all these years, if it was them or me; if it was bad luck and bad bands, or if it was my fault.” 

“What are you talking about, ‘fault’? Nobody forced those people to be in a band with you. They were getting something out of it or they would’ve left.”

“They did,” Vince snorted. “Most of them left.”

“Still, they learned something from you about how to entertain. And you had fun, didn’t you, despite not being able to make a living at gigging?”

“When I was up on stage, yeah, I had a lot of fun. And working the press, chatting up reporters, needling photographers to take my picture, I enjoyed that. The rest of it—”

“The actual music part of it,” Bryan supplied.

Vince looked him in the eyes. “You knew all along, didn’t you? From the first show I ever did. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Bryan broke the eye contact. “I couldn’t. Couldn’t hurt you like that. And anyway, it wasn’t a waste of time. You had fun, you learned how to control an audience, how to manage the press, you made a little money. Experience is never wasted unless you ignore what you’ve learned.”

“Thanks, Bryan.” Vince paused to drink his tea. “If you had told me, the night of my first gig, it would’ve crushed me. Your opinion has always mattered more to me than anyone else’s.”

“I was afraid of that. So, this project you can’t tell me about that involves singing, are you giving it up?”

“No, I’m learning something, making money and having fun. I’m not the best singer, but I might be the best entertainer, so I’m going to see how far I can go.”

“I could name you twenty people who are fabulous musicians but awful entertainers—but you wouldn’t recognize any one of them. I could name you the same number of fabulous entertainers whose singing is embarrassing—but I wouldn’t need to; you’ve had all of them on your show.” Bryan leaned over to snatch away the caboose and eat it. “I’d say you never had bad luck, Vince; it was good luck that you took an alternate opportunity when it was presented. One that let you take what you’d learned from gigging and apply it to a medium that you’re suited for. And if it’s a CBE you’re after, I’ve got three words for you: Sir Michael Parkinson.”

“I was just using the CBE as an example. If I was the Queen, I wouldn’t give one to to a character like Vince Noir. He’s well shallow.”

Helping himself to the train engine, Bryan winked. “Twiggy got a DBE.” 

Vince picked up the butter knife and sliced another raspberry Zinger in two. “Well, I suppose Charles had something to do with that.”

“Vince, certificates and gold plaques are nice to hang in your study, but when a creative person is good at what they do, in my experience, deep down they know it. They might cover it up with false modesty, but they know when something they’ve made is good.”

“What about all those songwriters who claim ‘oh I just wrote that song in the shower. I was going to throw it in the bin but my manager fished it out’?”

“I wouldn’t believe it. It makes for an entertaining story to tell on chat shows. How many talk shows are there? We’ll make it easier: just in England.”

“About a dozen, I guess.”

“So twelve people have jobs doing what you do. How many working musicians do you suppose there are?”

Vince screwed his eyes shut to calculate. “Maybe two thousand?”

Bryan shook his head. “Fifty-two thousand.” When Vince’s eyes widened, Bryan continued, “Hosting a chat show is a rare thing, innit? Few are called; fewer still are chosen. You know, don’t you, how good you are? Do you really need for other people to tell you?”

“There is the fan mail and the ratings. And the BBC keeps renewing our contract year after year.”

“That’s not what I mean. Deep down, you know what you do isn’t trivial, don’t you, and you’re good at it?”

Vince thought it over as he hooked up his new engine and caboose to the box cars. At last he raised his head to look at Bryan. “I know.”


	12. JANUARY 4, 2020

He’d rung first. Even though Bryan was single now and January was the slow time of the year for the music business, there was always a chance he would be away or busy writing songs or painting. He was a scheduled man—that was how Vince thought of him—a man who arranged his life as if it were a train schedule. Vince had grown up differently. Bryan believed that “kids should be kids” and allowed his kids the freedom to play or study or daydream outside of their school requirements (and sport activities, of course). Until he no longer had Howard to cover for him, that was how Vince had lived his adult life too. 

And so it was Bryan himself, not the housekeeper, who answered the doorbell. The security camera at the front gate had already alerted Bryan to his ward’s arrival, so he had a kettle on and a tray prepared in the kitchen. That was where Bryan took him, rather than the study, which Vince still hated. The colors in that den had gone wrong, Vince claimed: all dark and dominant (the decorator called the deep browns “masculine”). This was a room for hunters to sip brandy and boast about their hounds (Vince could not tolerate the scent of fox blood and wet dog on their boots). This was a room for record company executives and lawyers to sling back whiskey and argue the fine points of contracts. This was not the room for children to play in or artists to paint in or musicians to sing in. 

Vince had grown up primarily in three rooms in this former manor: his bedroom on the top floor, the art studio, which he and Bryan shared, and the kitchen, where first Bernice, then Thea had scolded and fed him and iodined his skinned knees. Neither of the housekeepers had remained after the last of the Ferry children went off to college; they were needed in houses with kids. The woman Ferry had now didn’t like kids or rock’n’rollers, so Vince avoided her like a face-stealing monkey. 

“Her day off,” Bryan explained when Vince raised an eyebrow toward the sink, which was Mrs. Paddington’s official duty station. Bryan squinted out of one eye, drawing forth the biscuit jar (Winnie the Pooh, bought by Bernice, when Vince was seven). “The treasure’s all ours, me hardy!” 

“Aye, Cap’n, avast the tea bags!” It was an old game of theirs, invented long before Vince knew what a pirate was. He settled himself in the chair to the right; Bryan’s was at the head of the table. Biscuits distributed and tea poured, they were ready to talk. “Happy New Year, by the way.”

“Happy New Year. And thanks for the smoking jacket. Chanel, isn’t it?”

Vince nodded. “Belonged to Andre, once upon a time.”

“Very nice.”

“Thank you for the paint brush pouch. Belonged once to Richard Wilson, didn’t it?”

“It did. Got it at auction back in February last year. I was afraid I’d forget to give it to you. Outlook reminded me.” Bryan paused. “You said there was something you needed to talk about?”

“Howard—me and Howard—”

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” Bryan murmured into his cup.

“He came for Christmas. Bollo invited him.”

“Oh? Where does he live now? Is he back in England?” Bryan knew better than to jump onto the back of the elephant in the room. One had to approach it gradually, casually. 

“LA. He was back to visit his mother but he came down to London. Stayed at Naboo’s for a full week.” Vince chewed a biscuit; chewing eased the tension.

“Did he? More tea, son?” 

“Yes please.”

“As I recall, you’d planned to spend Christmas at Naboo’s.”

“I did. I stayed the week.”

“And that went... all right?”

“We talked. We’re talking.”

“That’s good.”

“He’s coming back in March for his mother’s birthday... and for me.”

“That’s good news, Vince. He was your best friend from your reception days, even through college, despite going to different schools. You went to work together, you shared a home. His parents and I thought you’d buy houses across the street from one another and join the same bowling league. You’d eventually be buried in adjacent plots. But then things fell apart, and we assumed it would be temporary, but. .. .fifteen years!”

“Thirteen.” Vince stuffed two biscuits at once into his mouth, causing Bryan to slap his hand.

“Here! If you’re that hungry, I’ll fix you lunch.” Bryan dug into the bread box. “What would you like: tempeh reuben, egg-and-tomato, hummus, cheese?”

“Got any orange marmalade? And I don’t suppose some Gummi snakes?”

Bryan brought some fixings from the fridge. “You’ll have nut loaf.” Vince recognized the nut loaf: when he was a child, back when vegan recipes were hard to come by, he’d taken the recipe from the Kate Bush newsletter to share with his vegetarian parent. Bryan brought a plastic-wrapped dish from the fridge. He shook his head sadly. “Almost fifty years old and living off sweets.” 

Bryan carved out two large squares of the cake-like dish. “About that falling out with Howard, I never understood—what was so serious that you couldn’t patch things up?” He slid the squares into the microwave. “I’m sorry. I promised to never butt in on your life decisions. You’re an adult; you have your own mind.”

“No, I want your advice. Today, I do.” Vince washed the biscuits down. “Today, I hope I’m adult enough to ask for advice from someone who’s known me all my life.”

His chest puffing, Bryan carried over plates for them. “Well! I’d be glad to. How can I help, son?”

“Bryan, am I an asshole?”

Bryan’s jaw dropped. He twisted his head one way, then the other. 

“No, I’m not kidding. I’m really beginning to wonder.” Vince reached for the McVities tin. He took a handful and began to arrange them in a rectangle. As he talked he built a row on top of a row on top of a row, then stacked a roof on top. Bryan used to chastise him for playing with his food, but not today. “I know I’m shallow; that’s a given.”

“Not shallow. A trend-setter, fashion-follower, yeah, someone who’s concerned with his appearance, but so am I. So is every entertainer. It comes with the job.”

“No, I’m shallow. It’s not just the clothes or the clubs I go to or the people I hang out with. I have a heart, yeah, but it’s a beach ball. A big bouncy toy. Full of air.”

“What makes you say that?” Bryan folded his hands over his chest, resisting the temptation to deny the accusations against his adopted son.

“Look at my career. Careers.” Vince ticked them off on his fingers. “Zookeeper, shop clerk, musician, chat show host. No, better, look at the number of jobs I’ve had; the number of bands I was in would fill an Olympic pool. I can’t remember the names of all the bands I’ve been in.”  


“You—”

“Don’t tell me I was ‘finding myself.’ Thanks, Bryan, I know you love me and want to protect my feelings, but I need advice right now. Good old-fashioned Northern honesty.”

“Well... you weren’t very good, Vince. Some people live out of their heads. Everything they do makes sense. It doesn’t matter to them if they love what they do, as long they can make a living at it and be competent. You’re the kind who lives from the soul. You’ll work your ass off for things you love, whether they make money or sense or not. Music never really was your passion.”

“Why did I keep trying so hard, then? Band after band, every genre, and I wasn’t competent at any of them.”

“It wasn’t about the music. Think about it: if no one was around, did you ever noodle at the keyboard? When you picked up a pencil in an idle moment, was it to write down the music you heard in your head? When other players were arguing between Fender and Gibson, did you put in your two pence worth? It’s not even about fashion for you, not really. For you, it’s about the performing. Having an audience. It doesn’t matter what’s coming out of your mouth, a song or a joke or a conversation, as long as people are entertained.” Bryan sipped his tea. “And that’s not a bad thing. The world needs entertainers, especially this year. Be proud of that; you do it well. And you enjoy it, don’t you?”

“I enjoy it. Can’t believe they pay me for talking, but. . . .”

“It’s a skill that few have. It’s more than talking; you’re a Father Confessor in Guyliner. Your pay reflects that. It’s okay, Vince, enjoy your success.” 

“But people. How I treat people. I pick them up and put them down faster than _Cheekbone_ changes covers. I bring them into my orbit, then when they get too close I shake them off.”

“Which people, Vince?”

“I couldn’t name them, couldn’t begin to. Couldn’t even count them, all the people I’ve dated. Men as well as women.” He cast a quick glance at Bryan, ready to avert his gaze if judgment flared up between them. They’d never really talked about such matters.

Bryan just nodded. “I know.” Bryan had loved him through everything; why should he stop now? 

Perhaps they would talk about this later, in depth, if either of them felt it needed discussing. What he really needed to know now was something different. “I never had a relationship that lasted more than a month. As soon as a tie got formed, I’d cut it. Or the other person did. I didn’t care who made the cut.”

Bryan began removing some of the biscuits from the McVities house. Making a game of Jenga of it, he eased out a biscuit at a time, breathing softly, holding his fingers steady so the house wouldn’t fall. After he’d dismantled half the house he stopped. “Who were the people you dated?”

“There’s too many to—”

“No, I mean... where did you meet them?”

Vince twisted a lock of his hair. The action soothed him, enabled him to think. “Well, clubs. Parties. Gigs. Shops. Other people introducing me.”

“’Other people’ being party people, club people. Music and fashion followers, not musicians or fashion designers. Trendies.”

“I suppose.”

“The kind of people whose existences are predicated on who they’re seen with and where. Who’ll wear a space suit one week and a Jacobean ruff the next.”

“True.”

“Why would you expect their relationships to be any different? If you can call them ‘relationships.’”

“The kind of people I am. In other words,” Vince spat, “beach balls. Asshole beach balls.”

“What makes them assholes, Vince?”

“They hurt other people.”

“Okay.” Bryan drew in a breath. “Now we’re getting down to it. Who did you hurt, Vince? While you were a beach ball? The trendies?”

“Howard.” Vince wanted to cry. It was the most revealing and shameful admission he’d ever made, even though he knew Bryan wouldn’t judge him. “I hurt Howard.”

“How did you hurt him? Was it the fight you had?”

“More than that. The things I did as much as the things I said—the things I should have done when he needed me to, but I didn’t, not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want other people to see.” The words made no sense as they slipped and slid like a roller skater on ice, but Vince would edit them later, if Bryan didn’t understand. The emotions had to be released first. “I didn’t want them to know I was more like him than I was like them. I liked him, but I thought I liked them and I wanted them to like me or at least want to be with me so I could be like them. Cool. On magazine covers.”

“Why did you want that?”

Vince had never really considered it. “Why wouldn’t I? You were cool and people adored you.”

“You achieved your goal, didn’t you? For a while. Did it satisfy you?”

“For a little while, but I couldn’t shake the guilt. The way I’d treated Howard—Bollo and Naboo too—to get there. And you. In those years, I wasn’t there for you either.”

“And when you get to the top, you find out the ladder’s rickety. What you really needed all along was the foundation of your family and friends.”

“Are you going to tell me it’s a natural part of growing up and I’m not like that any more?”

“No. I was going to say something about ‘when you knew better you did better.’ Did you talk this out with Howard and the guys?”

“I started the conversation. I have more that needs to be said.”

“Are you afraid they won’t forgive you? If they don’t, will your friendship be any worse than it is now?”

“They forgave me. I just don’t know if I deserve it. If I’m worth being friends with.” Vince studied his hands so he didn’t have to make eye contact. “If I’ll do it again. Take advantage of them, use them, back-stab them.”

“Do you really think you’re a beach ball, Vince?”

“I’m afraid. That’s why I’m asking your advice. And Bryan—there’s a little more.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m in love with Howard.”

“Okay.” Bryan nodded thoughtfully, not a hair on his head ruffled. It must have been something he’d come to know over long years, probably before Vince had. “He’d make a good son-in-law, I think. Responsible. Dependable. Maybe not as level-headed as a father would like, but the most important thing is, he’s always had your back and always would,” Bryan mused. “So the problem is, can you commit to forever?”

“Not exactly. The problem is, I’m not any of those things—responsible, dependable, level-headed. The problem is, the kind of person I am is the kind of person that crushes people like Howard. Not because we’re cruel, but because we’re selfish and we just can’t help it.” 

“Are you, Vince? Still?” Bryan looked him in the eye. “If you’re aware of how you screwed up, isn’t it possible you’ve changed?”

“I suppose that’s what I’m asking. Am I a selfish asshole beach ball or have I changed? What do you see in me? Do I hurt the people who trust me?”

“I can only speak for myself. You need to ask Howard to speak on his own behalf.”

“Have I hurt you, Bryan?”

Bryan widened his eyes, then collected himself for an answer. “Your nana told me something once, when I asked her if childbirth hurts so much, why do women go through with it? She said, ‘It hurts like hell, but only for a little while. And then in the joy of loving, you forget about it.’” He walked around behind Vince and wrapped his arms around him. “I can’t speak for Howard, but you’ve never been an asshole beach ball to me. I wouldn’t have traded the trade the times you made me proud for the times you hurt me for anything.”

Vince couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. He could only squeeze Bryan’s arms tighter around him.

“When you get ready to talk to Howard—really talk, with a decision of how you want to proceed with him—you’ll find the right words and so will he. If you need anything, just a listener, maybe, come on over. I'll keep a tin on hand for you.”


	13. JANUARY 2020

The first postcard Howard sent bore a photo of Gibson Girls frolicking on the beach. Their pink parasols and chin-to-knee bathing suits made Vince laugh. The second postcard bore a photo of Howard and Tarantino frolicking on the beach in Gibson Girl bathing suits, parasols and all. “Howard,” Vince murmured into the air. “You’ve grown a sense of humor.” He peered at the card. “And a pair of very hairy knees.”

The first postcard that Vince sent bore a photo of him in a traditional tux, holding a BAFTA award. If one looked closely, though (and Howard would look closely), one would see that beneath the gold of the statuette, a river of melting chocolate was leaking out. The second postcard that Vince sent bore a photo of him at his dining table, a standee of Howard propped up in the chair beside his. Before them Vince had set hearty servings of stotties, panaculty and singin’ hinnies. “I’m learning to cook!” he scrawled on the back, signed with his name and five x’s. 

Small, jokey gifts at first, then slightly larger, more meaningful ones, passed back and forth: a bobblehead bobby from Vince was met with an “I heart LA” bumper sticker from Howard; a pair of Mickey Mouse ears from Howard was answered by a Big Ben hand-painted tie from Vince. Vince could have had his personal assistant take them to the post office to be mailed, but he preferred to do it himself, not because he didn’t want Kerry asking questions, but—just because. And every time he walked into the neighborhood post office, Vince wondered if he shouldn’t turn around and walk out again, save Howard and himself the yelling and the tears that were bound to come someday soon.

They spoke on the telephone once a week. Howard charted the spread of the new virus; Vince stayed true to his word and brought an NHS official onto his show. With Howard’s permission, he dug up a sound recording of “Isolation” from the old Boosh days and that became the theme for the NHS segment. As he expected, he received Howard’s praise on both accounts. As they learned more, they did more—more washing up, more reading, more listening—and less—less touching. But mostly they talked about their memories and their plans.

Past love affairs seldom came up in conversation. Vince didn’t want to hear about them. Didn’t want to hear—but being a Gemini, he couldn’t resist searching through _People_ and _Entertainment Weekly’s_ back pages in the hopes of spotting Howard in one of those who’s-dating-who photos. Unfortunately, Howard just wasn’t that much of a celebrity.

Vince started driving far out of his way so that he could pass that building Howard had asked about. As late as he came home every night, the building was dark and silent, but it kind of looked bloated to Vince, as though it was a water balloon about to burst. At first, his intention was to, again, impress Howard with his growing awareness, but after the first couple of nights, he had nothing new to say so he stopped talking about it. But he started wondering. 

**JANUARY 21, 2020**  


“It’s here.”

Though Howard couldn’t see him, Vince cocked his head. “It? A package?”

“The coronavirus.” When Vince didn’t respond, Howard reminded him. “The virus.”

“Ohhh... Where is it? LA?”

“Washington. The state.”

“You’re not planning—”

“No. I don’t have any travel plans outside of California right now. Not until March 1.”

“Ah. March 1. Something special about that date?”

“I hope so.” Vince could hear the smile.

“Howard?”

“Yes, Little Man?”

“You’re... being careful, right? What can you do, I mean?” Vince struggled to remember what the NHS chief had advised when he appeared on _Noir at Night_. “So you don’t get it.”

“I’m being careful, Vince. I promise. You should too.”  
—-

JANUARY 29, 2020  
In the hallway leading to the _Noir at Night_ set, Vince glanced over his shoulder at the retreating form carting an overflowing box. He recognized the news writer with the box, and the family photos, trophy and certificates in the box. To his left, his producer Chloe Coogan was reading off to him a list of proposed guests for the show. “What’s going on? Where’s Dave going?” 

“Redundant,” Chloe answered, distracted by her iPad.

“Why?”

One by one, three more staffers carrying boxes or bags marched down the hallway. Vince didn’t know their names, but he’d seen them around the building. “Them too?”

“Them too. Four hundred fifty of them, to be precise.”

Vince stared after the departed. “Why? Didn’t they cut 50 people a few months ago?” 

“Don’t worry,” Chloe patted his shoulder. “None of our people. It’s the newsroom.”

“But why?”

“Official word is it’s part of a modernizing plan. BBC News is going digital.”

“I got a bad feeling about this.” Vince felt justified in his distrust of computers; but more than that, he wondered how long it would be before someone would think to invent a holographic chat show host.

For the first time that morning, Chloe focused her attention on her star. “You worried about them? That’s very considerate of you.” She could’ve added the word _unusual_ to the compliment, Vince knew. It would’ve been true.

“Yeah,” he murmured. 

—-  
JANUARY 31, 2020  
“Did you see the report today?” It had become almost a greeting, the first words in their phone calls beyond “Hello.” “The report” meant one thing: not Vince’s ratings, not Howard’s name in the _Los Angeles Times_. 

“Yeah.” Vince’s voice was shaky. “I announced it on the show. Or tried to anyway. My voice gave out in the middle.”

“How did you break the news to your viewers?” Howard’s voice was soothing and warm; Vince wished he could curl up inside it as if it were a Curly Wurly wrapper. 

“I just said, ‘It’s here. Two cases in Newcastle.’ I reckon everybody knew what I was talking about. I couldn’t do the monologue after that. I just couldn’t. I just went over to my desk and asked the band to play something. They played ‘Breathing.’ They know I’m a Kate Bush fan.”

“Seems appropriate.” 

“Howard? March 1?”

“I’ll do my damnedest.”  
–


	14. FEBRUARY 1, 2020

“I’ll arrive on March 1,” Howard promised. “I can stay through March. Got auditions on the second and tenth, and I’ll want to spend a couple of days in Leyton with Mum and Laurie, then I’m supposed to be writing a treatment for Tim Burton, due April 2. But maybe spending time with you will fire me up for writing.” He winked at Vince. “It’s supposed to be an absurd comedy.”

Vince had been on the fringe of the television industry long enough to know how it worked, at least in England. If Burton bought the story, Howard would be a very busy man. “Are you writing a role for yourself?”

“Initially I thought I would, but now I’m not sure. We’d be shooting in California.” 

“Oh.”

“What if. . .have you ever thought about acting?”

Vince fell silent.

“You have a very expressive face. It’s going to be a comedy.”  


“I don’t know.”

“I’ve watched you coddle those celebrities you interview. A lot of acting going on there.”

Vince shrugged. “No different from chatting up Camden dollies.”

“You give me the confidence to think funny. In fact, I have a part in mind for you. Small, but leaves an impression.”

“I don’t know, Howard. Leave _Noir at Night_?”

“Yeah, you’d have to do that. At least, temporarily. Think about it.” Howard’s voice deepened. “I want us to be together. We’ve lost too much time as it is.”

As he lay in his bed that night, he did think about it. And he thought about the boy he was, the tree climber, the snake talker, the tiger rider. The little newcomer who ran without hesitation and doubt into a group of older football players and asked to be included—and proved himself worth including. The teen who walked through city streets crowded with chavs and taxi drivers and construction workers and priests who unleashed their vitrol on him for wearing a dress and mascara. The glam poof son of a suave, dinner-jacketed singer. The failed performer who, time and time again, climbed up on stage to front bands that didn’t really want him because he wanted desperately to be accepted. Courage or recklessness? 

And now his soul mate was calling for him. His soul mate wanted him with a depth of wanting that no one before or since had shown for him. What was there to be afraid of? Leaving London, where he’d lived all his life? Trying and failing to make a place among the blonde, bikini’ed Americans? Leaving the job that was molded for him, after years of failure and bad choices? Vincey would’ve run right in. The Confuser would have laughed at an old man’s fears. The third-rate musician would have shrugged off his nerves and grabbed the nearest microphone. Howard’s Little Man would have argued that nothing mattered but the man he loved so freely. 

He tried to sleep but he kept remembering and remembering. No, it wasn’t failure or insecurity he was afraid of. It wasn’t fear at all; the security of belonging to someone who truly loved him would dissipate fear. It was distrust that tangled his feet, not distrust of the love between him and Howard, but distrust of himself. His shallow ambitions and flights of fancy made him untrustworthy. His imagination predicted the outcome of a future with Howard. A public reunion at the airport with handshakes and sneaky quick kisses (Howard had always been sensitive about PDA), gifts bestowed (a bouquet of _copa de oro_ for Vince, a gold-wrapped box of Curly Wurlies, Flying Saucers and strawberry bootlaces for Howard). A coastline drive in Howard’s convertible Corvette (yes, in real life Howard drove a Subaru but this was Vince’s fantasy) to a cozy beach house for strawberries and champagne in bed. Under the floral duvet, with the splash of the waves and calls of seagulls as their music, they would share all their news and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

But the next day. . . .

Vince would be Vince. Fussing over his hair, tossing barbs meant to be funny at Howard for his pineapple-and-palm tree bowling shirts, his scruff, the finicky way he nibbled his toast; in public, the “don’t touch me’s” and Vince’s “oh, grow up, Howard, no one cares if we kiss”; the walk along the beach ruined because Howard insists on wearing knee socks with his Birkenstocks and Vince keeps fiddling with his wind-blown hair; and sandcastle builders giving them weird looks and whispering girls demanding autographs—not that they recognize Howard (they’re too young for his artsy movies) or Vince, but because of the way he’s dressed he “must be Somebody." Disagreements over where to eat (Howard craves Pink's Hot Dogs, but Vince is a vegetarian) become accusations of staidness (Vince to Howard) and childishness (Howard to Vince) over which club they'll spend their evening, Bluewhale (jazz, of course) or the Rainbow Bar and Grill (in the hopes of encountering a Hollywood Vampire). Then tears the next morning as Howard discovers that Vince has done a little Midnight Barbering on him—Howard truly hurt by what he considers an implication that Vince doesn’t find him attractive, and Vince truly hurt when Howard refuses to take him along to a lunch meeting with Tim Burton (“It’s because I’m not sophisticated enough, right? Not educated enough to fit in with your crowd?”) And shouting in the morning when Howard, hoping to placate, trails two steps behind as Vince shops in West Hollywood, chats up a cute counter girl and earns an invitation to a house party (“oh, and your friend can come too”—coated over with a thin layer of tolerance and a thick undercoat of insincerity), and too much booze and flattery leads Vince into Counter Girl’s bed. Because that’s who he is: vain, shallow, selfish (and too insecure to believe that anyone could truly love him). 

When his radio alarm went off he crawled out of bed, a mess that a coat of makeup and a mirror ball suit couldn’t cover. He ignored the bagel that Annie/Abby had left warming in the convection oven but sat down with a cup of tea and the notes Andrea had prepared for tonight’s interviews. As he drove to the studio, he rehearsed; the interviews had to sound spontaneous, a conversation with a pal. Sometimes he even fooled the less experienced guests, who took his warmth and casualness for genuine friendship. Sometimes he came away with a new, though temporary, mate. Vince Noir, always good for a party or shopping excursion, always good for a laugh. People liked him because he never let them know him. Not even Charis, who’d been his agent for seven years. 

He rehearsed the PA's notes, then rehearsed his smile (“You just adore the world, don’t you?” a reporter had once asked) but his mind was mulling over the explanation he would give Howard for his impending refusal. Despite his shallow nature, he really didn’t want to hurt Howard. Or himself.  


In the minutes leading up to the start of filming, Vince had two—well, rituals: first he would shake hands with the production staff, thanking them by name, wishing them a good show, then walk through his set to ensure everything was in order and clean (the thought still excited him, after eight years: his desk, his show, his set, his cameraman, his producer, his assistant). Then he would walk behind his desk to admire the vase of fresh daisies provided by the production assistants. Then he would touch the five-by-seven photograph that had perched on the edge of his desk since the first show: Kate Bush, in her “Babooshka” costume: two halves stitched together, one a black mourner’s dress, the other metallic silver Boudicea-like battle armor. Over the years, he’d often referred to his bucket-list wish to someday interview the elusive, mysterious Kate. In the meantime, the photo served as Vince’s good luck charm.

Tonight, instead of touching the photo lightly, he picked it up and studied it. The costume—apart from being amazing—signified two halves of the same person: the dark, self-destructive depressive and the brilliant, bold warrior who fought for love. It was an idealistic thought, that two disparate halves could co-exist (as a Gemini, he recognized the existence of his own shadow and beat it down daily with sunshine) and that, lit by love, the glorious side could win. At least, that’s how he interpreted the image tonight. Of course, that didn’t apply to Camden dollies like Vince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The video in which Kate Bush wears her two-toned outfit can be seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WqK_p2D-4Sw


	15. FEBRUARY 2 & 10, 2020

**FEBRUARY 2, 2020**  
“How are you?” It had come to mean what it originally meant, at last, not just a pleasantry that Americans exchanged. Howard truly wanted to know. He’d ask this, from now on, at the start of every phone call. He worried extra for Vince, all that touching and hugging and cheek-kissing. Vince was a daisy in a field of poppies and dandelions; he needed plenty of sunshine or he’d wither. 

****

****

“Don’t worry, I haven’t hugged or kissed anyone today.” The claim could have been made in sarcasm, but Vince meant it. Especially the first phrase. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fit as a fiddle.” There was a thoughtful pause on the other end, then Vince could hear Howard swallow. “Vince, I—that question I asked last night.”

In the old days, Vince would’ve ducked the question, given a vague answer, tried to make a joke. His conscience had gradually awakened from slumber over the years; besides, this was Howard he was talking to, and Howard deserved the respect of honesty. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Was it too soon? A zero to sixty question? I mean, we’d only just set things right between us.”

“It wasn’t too soon. I’ve loved you since we were kids, Howard. In different ways. And I knew you loved me before I knew what love meant. It’s just. . .” Vince took his time searching for words; Howard allowed it. Howard had that kind of patience, brown, like the ground after a rainfall, waiting for the first seeds of the year to sprout. “I don’t know what to say.”

“No pressure. I’m not going away, Vince. I mean, except March 1. You know what I mean.”

“I’m a bit of a bastard, aren’t I? That’s. . . I don’t know if I can trust myself, or if you should trust me. Too many times I. . . An Asshole Beach Ball, that’s me. A selfish, self-centered, self-deluding bastard. I know you don’t see me that way—”

“Of course not. Except sometimes. There were some times. But the other times made up for it. And there were far more good times than bad. And sometimes, I was just as much a bastard.”

“No. You put up with every kind of—”

“Yeah, but you put up with some, too. That time the mountain man—I never told you, but I’m so sorry for what I did then. He wanted to trade—a map to the Yeti, in exchange for an evening with. . .you.” 

“Ah. I wondered. . . .It’s OK, Howard. In the past. Wasn’t the first time I had to fight off a smelly Jack the Rimmer. But there was the time I left you alone to deal with Old Gregg—”

“And there was the time I—”

“No. Let’s end it right there, Howard. We discussed all that before; we made our apologies. Slate’s clean, mate.”

“If it’s clean for me, it’s clean for you. Bear that in mind as you’re pondering my invitation. I trust you. If you think I’m a good judge of character, then you must trust yourself.” When Vince didn’t reply, Howard continued, “Vince, do you still want me to stay at yours, come March 1? I could stay with my sister in Leyton.”

“You’re staying at mine,” Vince insisted. “Annie’s already perfecting her Yorkshire pie. Besides, I want to spend as much time together as we can.”

“I love you, Vince. Hey, I’ll bring you something from Polkadots and Moonbeams, yeah?”

—  
**FEBRUARY 10, 2020**  
“I’ve been watching old episodes of your show on YouTube. You’re really good, Vince, funnier than Graham Norton and twice as cool. Hey, Vince, I noticed that for a while there, in the first year, you were having a lot of jazz musicians on. Was that at the insistence of someone at the BBC, or did you take an interest in Mama Bop?”

“Well.” Vince licked his lips. “It was Papa Moon that I was interested in.”

“You became a student of jazz in order to keep my memory close.”

“You could say that.”

“I’m flattered, Vince.” There was a long pause. “Vince? I sometimes spend Sunday afternoons in the Broad Museum of Modern Art, to feel closer to you.”


	16. Mid to Late FEBRUARY 2020

**FEBRUARY 12, 2020  
"UK Prepares for More Coronavirus Cases After First London Diagnosis: Officials Tell Britons to Brace Themselves for Spread of Virus as Global Disruption Continues"**

\-- _The Guardian_

\--- 

**FEBRUARY 14, 2020**  
There were a dozen roses, yellow, white and red, and a stuffed Baby Yoda waiting on his kitchen table when he got home from work. The note, in typical Moon fashion, apologized that the Baby Yoda was illegitimate, a knockoff, as Disney wouldn’t release the real thing until April. “But I know how much you love him, and I wanted to show how much I love you. XXX Howard.”

There would be a phone call in another hour, 3pm LA time. Not from Vince—that call would come an hour later—but from Nora Jones, singing “Come Away with Me.” 

Vince cradled the flowers in his arms, remembering.  
—  


**FEBRUARY 15, 2020**  
Vince was supposed to have walked a catwalk this evening. Jean-Claude had personally asked him, called him from his home in Trocadero, come out of retirement to make this, along with a few other, Very Important phone calls, to support the Jacquettie line at London Fashion Week. “It would mean much to me, my boy. This is the debut of my granddaughter, you see, her very first Fashion Week. Her designs are so avant garde that when she presented them to me, I immediately thought of you. Would you do us the tremendous honor of wearing one of her creations on her opening night?” 

He’d so looked forward to the event: there would be swag bags of clothes and cologne, a sizable paycheck for a few hours’ work, and a chance to elevate his show’s status. Besides, he’d felt a bit loyal toward the House of Jacquettie, which had given him work when work was hard to come by, a series of commercials and personal appearances to promote their hair care product line. He’d looked forward to the grand event, but he would have to look farther forward now: London Fashion Week had been rescheduled, due to the virus. 

So, instead of whatever wild concoction that Arielle Jacquettie had planned for his turn on the catwalk, he pulled on a baggy University of Reading sweatshirt over his black pants and crawled into bed with a cup of cocoa, and instead of whoever he might have been introduced to (he’d so hoped to meet Herpen!) tonight, he talked on the phone with Bollo. 

At least, he was the only chat show host who could honestly brag he could converse with an ape. 

**FEBRUARY 17, 2020**  


“Getting tickets was a bit of a bear—”

“A bare bear?” Vince couldn’t help teasing. Anytime he could get a chuckle out of Howard, it was worth it, even if a pun was required. 

“A bare bear with no hair anywhere, so there.” Howard had scored! “Anyway, flights are being canceled at an alarming rate. My travel agent says people are afraid to travel, being cooped up in a small space with strangers an elbow’s distance away. Still, to hear them talk, Americans act like this is just another flu—take a Tylenol and stay in bed for a day, back to work tomorrow.”

“What about all those deaths in China? Two thousand, seven hundred forty-four.” Vince could be specific; the NHS chief had phoned in a report to _Noir at Night_ last night. He knew Howard would be proud (and relieved) that he’d become aware. And to be honest, he was beginning to worry. The makeup man was disinfecting every brush and eyebrow pencil before it touched Vince’s face. He was also trimming Vince’s hair;the House of Jacquettie had closed indefinitely, quick as a finger snap, without warning. At five hundred per trim, JC could afford to. When he’d whinged about the situation, Howard had huffed: “I remember when we couldn’t afford the price of a comb. You learned to cut it yourself. Did a damn fine job too.” Vince had started on the unevenness of the neckline, but Howard gruffed, “What did you have for lunch, Vincent? You had lunch, didn’t you? Some people didn’t.”

Dread—not yet full-blown fear—seemed to be on every face, everywhere one went these days: sidewalks and streets nearly empty, shops dark and locked, people carrying 24-packs of toilet paper from Sainsbury’s. 

“That building,” Vince blurted, the thought so heavy on his mind it had to escape. “Remember? Angel Unaware.”

“I remember.”

“There was a news report.” Normally, this comment would have been a fishing-for-compliments attempt: Vince Noir pays attention to the news; he cares about the world! But he was caught up in informing Howard. “All the social services in London are hurting. Even the animal shelters. Volunteers and donations aren’t coming in. Requests for help are coming in doubled. People are losing their jobs, Howard.”

Howard grew grim. “This is bigger than anyone expected. It’s going to hurt for a long time after the virus is gone.”

“Come home, quick as you can, Howard. Where you can take care of me.” Then Vince realized how that sounded. “Where we can take care of each other.”

“March 1, Little Man. March 1.”

–  
**FEBRUARY 20, 2020**  
“I’ve started a nightly segment: ‘The Five-Minute Update with Doctor Winston.’ The NHS chief. It’s surprising how much new information there is to report every day.”

“Alarming, I’d say.”

“Chloe—that’s my producer, Chloe Coogan—”

“You’ve mentioned her.”

“She didn’t want to do it at first—late-night viewers don’t want depressing, she said. And I’m not exactly known for serious subjects. But I dug in my Cuban heels and she agreed to a one-week trial. It’s a much-needed public service.”

“Yes, it is.”

Vince didn’t say anything more until Howard caught on to the reason for the silence. “You did a good thing, Vince.”

“I did, didn’t I?”  
—-

 **FEBRUARY 28, 2020**  
Howard would be boarding his first flight in fifteen minutes. From the news reports, Vince imagined that the flight would be overbooked with British citizens being recalled from overseas schools, businesses or holiday trips. Though he’d acquired a business-class seat, Howard would be crammed up against the plane window, doing his best to avoid rubbing elbows with the passenger seated next to him. He’d ride like that all the way until exhaustion, a couple of tiny bottles of Irish whiskey and a few chapters of _Ulysses_ would push him into a dreamless sleep. He would awaken, unknown hours later, after a sharp shove from his seatmate, to discover in mortification that he’d attempted to make a pillow of the other passenger’s shoulder and had drooled all over the man’s Armani jacket. 

That was just Howard. And Vince knew that was what would happen because, although they’d never flown together, it had happened dozens of times on trains, except it had been Vince’s pillow-shoulder and Vince’s Caserita poncho, and rather than shoving him off, Vince had stroked his corduroy hair.

Howard would be boarding his first flight in ten minutes. Vince could stop him: call the United ticket counter at LAX, tell them it was urgent, get the call transferred to the gate, get the ticket agent to summon Howard and hand him the phone, and when, heart pounding with anxiety and hands sweating (Howard hated to fly anyway, and to get an urgent call at the last minute could skyrocket his blood pressure), Howard squeaked, “Yes? This is Howard T. J. Moon,” then Vince could talk him down in that chocolaty voice of his, and when Howard’s heart rate had dropped into a normal range, then Vince would inform him it had been a big mistake, don’t get on the plane, don’t come to London, don’t come to see him, because it wrong, Vince was wrong, wrong for a dependable, honest guy like Howard. I love you, Vince would assure him, but I’m not like you; you can’t rely on me. I’ll let you down, break your heart, lie to you, manipulate you, run around on you then convince you my unfaithfulness is all your fault because you’re so boring. You’ll go back to America crushed beneath my Chelsea boots, and we’ll both cry and pine for each other, but I can’t help it, I can’t fix myself. I’m a macker, a playa, a coquette, the King of the Lying Wolves, a walking score card, Lizard on the Seesaw. An Asshole Beach Ball, that’s all I am. So go home, Howard. 

Howard would be boarding his flight in five minutes.


	17. MARCH 1, 2020

Weaving his way in and out of the throng, Vince paced to and fro behind the crowd control barricades that separated arriving passengers from the people there to pick them up. There were forty barricades—he knew for sure; he’d counted—he wasn’t sure why they’d been erected: they were too slight and movable to be much use if the crowd got out of control. On a catwalk overhead, five expressionless security guards looked down, ready for trouble. Not one of them, Vince thought, could have been a day over thirty. It was a heavy responsibility, the crowd consisting of largely of families. Had there been an eruption, could that boy guard up there bring himself to shoot into a confused group of nanas and babies? 

Vince studied the faces as he passed through the masses, a long-held habit; he memorized interesting features for possible subjects for future paintings. Deep down, if he admitted it, he was also seeking recognition. A grin, a squeal, a thumb’s up from a fan would ease some of his nervousness right now. Even when he was in a rush or upset about some matter he couldn’t manipulate to his liking, he always took time for his fans. They fed him, in more ways than one.

Stuffing his hands deep into his parka, he glanced at the arrival board, then the wall clock. United 16 from EWR had arrived on time, twenty-three minutes ago. His eyes burned from the staring; his feet ached from the pacing. He was hungry, but Howard would be too; they would go directly home from here, where Annie/Abby had a lovely traditional northern meal warming in the cooker. They’d have the rush hour traffic to weave through—well, not so much these days. He beat his arms back and forth, warming up his muscles so he could assist with rolling Howard’s suitcases. 

He’d always loved the airport: multi-lingual noise and strange smells and rumbling carts and tiny shops selling everything from Cadbury chocolates to Hermes scarves. But what Vince loved most was the planes taking off, so important and imposing, for every city in the world, and upon them, people he might know or want to meet. Travel was in his blood; we Ferrys are traveling minstrels, Bryan liked to joke, never mind the fact that he and Vince didn’t share the same blood. Howard had a more businesslike approach to travel (he hated the bumpiness of trains and buses, the claustrophobia-causing cramped quarters of airplanes, the interminable slowness of boats and ferries): he would take a sleeping pill 30 minutes before departure, then after settling securely into his seat (always farthest back, where most passengers didn’t like to sit) he’d read _War and Peace_ or Proust until he fell asleep (seldom more than 20 pages in). Whereas Vince would pepper fellow travelers with destination questions (“What’s fun there?” “Are there any vintage shops?” “What kinds of sweets do they have?") Howard would ask his travel agent only two questions about his destination: “What’s the crime rate” and “Do they speak English?” Oh, Howard used to like to pretend he was a modern-day Edmund Hillary, but the truth was, he could’ve been a poster boy for Dramamine. 

But this evening, the people who should be chattering excitedly were complaining to each other. Everything from the presence of armed security to the lack of Dairy Milks in the vending machines seemed cause enough to complain. When one stander stepped on the foot of another, fists and voices were raised, and so were guns on the catwalk. But a nana shoved herself between the would-be pugilists, instructing them to “Calm dowl, yaouw lunk’eaded lot.” The men cursed her but backed off, and Vince wondered what had happened to the granny-respecting, stiff-upper-lipped English reserve that he’d observed before in times of turbulence. All of a sudden Vince didn’t want to be there any more, or any place else but under a duvet on his couch, with Danger Mouse on the telly. 

“Howard? Hoooooooward!!” Vince grabbed the top bar of a barricade, ready to swing a leg over, but that boy guard overhead scowled and Vince backed down. He started to scamper down the line of barricades toward the opening, but slowed to an obedient and sedate amble. Where the barricades ran out, he shifted into the exiting-passenger aisle and waved at a dignified gentleman in a wool Burberry. People would mistake them for a CFO of some Chiswick bank and his on-the-dole nephew, the kind who swiped his clothes from Goodwill bins. The thought made Vince feel sneaky and right at home. Arms spread, he came at Howard like a starving Monarch butterfly after an apple slice. The luggage trolley at Howard’s side tripped him and he fell into Howard, who abandoned the cart to catch Vince. “All right there, Little Man?” Howard pushed Vince to arm’s length to inspect him, as best as possible under the parka. 

Behind them, passengers grumbled and someone bellowed, “Hey! No touchin’!” A second voice took advantage of the opportunity to release some frustration: “Yeah, y’ bloody divvy! Y’ wan’ kill us?”

“Aww shut yers, ye radio rental,” Vince shot back—but in a voice only Howard could hear, because after all, there were guards and fans and nanas and stiff-upper-lippers to consider. He lit his sunshine smile for the new arrival. “All right here, Howard. I missed you.” 

“I’m glad to be home, Little Man. It’s been a long and arduous journey, of which I will share every detail—tomorrow. Right now—”

“A hot meal, a hot bath and hot cuddles on the couch?” Vince winked. 

“But first.” Howard seized Vince’s waist, as best he could find it under the parka, and drew him in for a decisive kiss. Vince could’ve swooned, except he cast his eyes about for the judgmental glares of other passengers. There were none. When he was released, he had to re-set his feet so he didn’t fall over. “Wow,” he said in low voice. “PDA. You did it for my sake.”

“You deserve that and more.”

Vince reached over for the handle of Howard’s luggage trolley. 

“You needn’t drag that for me, Vince.” They started for the exit.

“I want to. You must need to stretch, relax, after being cooped up for so long. Is this all you have?” He gestured to the two bags on the trolley.

“That’s all. I don’t buffet about on the winds of fashion.” 

“There’s a simple truth about you.” 

“Where are Naboo and Bollo? I was hoping they’d be with you.”

“Naboo got called back to Xooberon, so Bollo’s with him. Leroy’s managing the shop. Nobody knows how this coronavirus might affect Naboo, so they’re not taking any chances. Human diseases seem to act weird on shamans—shamen? Two years ago, when the measles was going round, he caught it and developed a week-long case of hiccups. Whenever he’d hiccup, he’d float. Bollo had to tie a string to his ankle and carry him around like a New Year’s parade balloon.”

It seemed another hour before they’d passed through the terminal and the parking garage to Vince’s Guilia. Settling into the passenger seat, Howard observed, “The garage is packed for a Sunday.”

“So are the streets. It’s London.” Vince switched on the ignition and looked over his shoulder to back out of the parking space, prompting Howard to smile and shake his head. “Look at you. My Little Man, driving a car.”

“Maybe it was time for me to start growing up.” Vince shot a warning look at him. “I haven’t made much progress, I’m afraid. Still a right bastard.”

“You’re farther along than you give yourself credit for.” Before the conversation could turn into an argument, Howard reached into his inside pocket for a typed list. With a mechanical pencil he checked something off the list. “My itinerary,” he explained, then he displayed the pencil, its silver casing catching the street lights. “And this, sir, is the Ohto Tasche. Picked this baby up in Sacramento.”

He’d been smiling various smiles since 5pm, but now Vince’s smile fluttered: it had been ages since Howard had referred to him as _sir_. He felt tightness slide off his shoulders, flow down his neck and spine, slip over his thighs through his calves and dribble out his toes. Once he was assured the tension had puddled into his boots and he was free of it, he wondered why how long he’d carried it without realizing, and why. “And this,” Vince reached between the seats for a gold-trimmed box, “is for you. To replenish the Britishness in your blood.” 

“God save the Queen.” Howard flipped the lid and examined his choices. He hooted. “A Kinder Surprise! Baby, I’ve missed you.”

Vince flicked him a saucy smile. “Are you talking to me or the egg?”

“You’ll have to figure that out yourself.” 

As she had promised, Annie/Abby had left a full Yorkshire meal warming: Howard paused in the entranceway to draw in the hearty aromas. “Oh, England,” he sighed. “How I’ve missed you.” 

“And me?” Vince teased, nudging the door open with the suitcase in his grip.

“Sometimes I miss you even before I leave.” Later, Vince would wonder what that meant. For now, Howard was standing in the foyer, waiting for an invitation; before Vince could provide one, Kadaway did. Howard knelt to pet the old fellow, and Vince puzzled over why Howard was acting as if he were a stranger here. 

“Well, as I assume they say in LA, ‘Mi casa es su casa.’” He started for one of the bedrooms, slowing down as he came to the hallway between them. “Erm, I wasn’t sure. . . .” He waved the suitcase between the two bedrooms, one that was tidy but clearly lived in, the other, apparently rarely used. “We didn’t talk about. . . .”

Howard’s face shifted in an array of emotions. “Let’s just set them here for now.” He took the second suitcase from Vince and set the two against the hallway wall. 

Vince pursed his lips. “Well, you know where everything is.”

Howard nodded. “I need to wash up before dinner. Those airport lounge showers leave much to be desired.” 

They brushed past each other, Howard headed for the loo, Vince headed for the kitchen, Kadaway following at a hopeful but respectful distance. When Howard emerged, damp curls clinging to his deeply lined face, Vince had dinner on the table. He spread his hands over it, ready to accept Howard’s applause. “I cooked the pease pudding. Everything else is Annie’s.” 

“My mouth is watering like the Yosemite Falls.” Howard seemed a little more at ease; he seated himself before a filled plate without asking. Kadaway moved over to lay at Howard’s feet in anticipation of spillage or sneaked treats. 

Howard’s nose hovered over the pudding. “Oooh, Vince. I’ve dined in Paris, Rome, New York and Madrid, but this, this, sir, I would trade them all for. These aromas make me feel safe.”

Vince slid into his chair and reached for his napkin. He feigned spreading it across his lap, but tossed it at Howard’s face instead. “Well, dig in, then, Buffalo Man.” 

Around the first mouthful, Howard murmured, “You did well, Little Man.”

“Bryan’s mum’s recipe. Handed down.”

“Of course. Any self-respecting recipe would be.”

Vince found himself hungry, an unusual condition, but Howard’s enjoyment of the meal inspired him. Conversation was held for the appetizers, which they saved for after the pease pudding and before the dessert. Then Howard admitted that, although he’d flown first class, the meals he’d been served were unappetizing. “Bottled water or beer only, no tea. A ‘Flight Fuel’ box, they called it, everything sealed: It’s not usually like that. Usually we get a hot meal and hot towels. LAX and Newark are always busy, but this time they were—it was like rats jumping off a sinking ship. So many flights have been canceled, so many people rushing home, wherever home is, under the expectation that another day’s wait could strand them. Every day more restrictions on travel. Flights are canceled but ticket prices are falling and on the trip to Newark, I met a newlywed couple who thought coronavirus was great because it got them a cheap honeymoon to New York.” Howard turned wounded eyes to Vince. “Nations are shutting down, Vince. Locking their citizens in, locking the world out. If it lasts long, who knows what this will do to our world view?”

“Disruption of trade. . . high prices. . . no more weekends shopping in Paris. . .” Vince speculated.

“More than that, what will it do to us, as people? People get weird when they isolate themselves, Little Man. We’ve experienced that firsthand. Suspicion, greed, pettiness, superstition, fear, racial discrimination, all of it contributes to war.”

“I think we’re smarter than that now. More cosmopolitan,” Vince tried to insist, but he didn’t feel it. He always trusted Howard in matters like this.

“Social breakdown.” And that was the final word on this topic for the night. “I’m tired, I’m sorry. I can’t be optimistic tonight. I had a sleeper seat from Newark to London, but. . . .”

“You’re home now. It’s all right.” 

“Is it, Vince?” Howard picked at the remains of his Lancashire Hot Pot. “Or is this just the start of the new norm? Maybe I’ve seen too many sci-fi dystopias.”

Vince stood to collect the used dinnerware and Howard, moving on automation, assisted him. “We’ll watch some _Star Trek_ tonight. That’ll make you feel better. ‘The Trouble with Tribbles’—that’s genius.” As Howard passed by him on the way to the sink, Vince could see up close the dark bags under those shrimp eyes. “Or tomorrow. Save it for tomorrow night so you can go right to bed.” He made a decision of which he would be proud later: “In the Brown Bedroom. The one Bryan uses when he visits. It’ll be quiet there.” 

“Thanks, Vince.” They scraped the dishes in silence, except for the clatter of silverware as it went into the dishwasher. With the machine humming in the background, Vince fetched a vase of flowers from the counter and set it in the center of the table. “For you, Travel Man.” He invited Howard to sit down again, then brought out dishes of rhubarb crumble. “Celebrate while we can,” Vince insisted. “Appreciate what we have while it’s here.”

Howard nodded as he picked up the vase to admire its contents, a dozen soft pink geraniums with dark pink hearts—they’d reminded Vince of Howard, fragile-pedaled but strong-stalked. The florist had explained that pink geraniums were once used to manufacture love potions; in modern times, one gives them to show appreciation for the recipient’s presence in the giver’s life. Vince just thought the colors were a good match for the Howard that the outside world never saw.

When he’d first entered the florist’s shop and swept to the counter, to his puzzlement she took a step back. She was wearing a white mask across her mouth. They completed their transaction with minimal touching, she nodding to the vase in invitation, he sliding the bills across the counter. She smiled at him with her eyes. A month earlier and she would have found small excuses to touch him, guiding him by the arm to her display shelves, stroking his palm with her fingers as she accepted his payment. It would have meant nothing, of course, just playfulness, a rare opportunity for a moment of one-on-one contact with a television personality, someone she sort of felt she knew. And he would have allowed it, because it was good for his business to seem accessible, and because he was Vince. 

As Vince shared this experience with Howard, he fiddled with the objects on the kitchen table. His fingers sent him constant information—glass ridges of the salt shaker, elegant curves of the spoon, uninterrupted cool smoothness of the tabletop—and he became aware how much he needed this information, always had, how it fixed him in the real world. When he was a very small child, so small he wasn’t aware of his age, he’d secretly feared that he might leak, particle by particle, into one of the imaginary worlds that shadowed him, teased and tantalized him to come away, ride on the backs of unicorns, slide down rainbows, swim in Kool Aid lakes, parade through taffy streets with chocolate Easter bunnies and animal crackers. When he grew a little older, he had to be sought out in his bedroom, in the backyard, in a broom closet, because he’d lost track of time, or so Bernice labeled it; Bryan understood a little better: he’d been “off with fairies.” It would take touch—sometimes an entire hug—to bring him back. When he grew older still, Bryan had taught him a secret: he could bring imaginary worlds into the real one by committing them to paper, and so he learned to paint. When he started school, he had to learn to read the signals of other children to know when it was okay to hug or squeeze an arm and when it would get him yelled at by the teacher or punched in the belly by another student or worse, labeled a perv. He tried sometimes to explain about the magnetism of the imaginary worlds, but that just got him labeled as crazy. 

Howard, though—from the moment they met, pushed together by Mrs. Moon and her boss, Bryan Ferry—Howard had allowed an occasional touch. He’d fuss about it if they were in public, but when other people looked away, he’d drop his arm to his side, open his palm, wiggle his fingers in silent signal, and when Vince’s hand sneaked up on his, he’d lace the two sets of fingers together, snug as a well-tied shoe. He didn’t understand about the grounding; he merely grunted “huh” when Vince tried to describe how it felt to be a balloon filled to bursting with helium and desperately needing someone to secure his string before he floated off. But he was weird too, so he accepted the touch. Sometimes he even initiated it. 

Pushing his untasted dessert aside, Vince knocked over the salt shaker. Absently but intentionally, he tipped the shaker over to spill some salt onto the table, with his fingertip painting the tabletop. It became a background, maybe a snowy field, and flakes of parsley a line of trees providing a windbreak, and a dribble of black pepper became a path, and flakes of red pepper the footprints on that path. When he’d finished his painting he licked the tip of his finger and leaned back, sighing, relaxed now, and safe from the drift. He glanced up to find Howard had been watching him, neither smiling nor frowning, just watching. Howard’s hand darted out to seize Vince’s across the table.

“We shouldn’t—” 

“Yeah, we should.” Vince thought Howard would let that claim hang in the air, but the Action Man was too tied to the real world to let a thought go unexplained. “Anyway, it’s all right; they took my temperature at the airport, as soon as we came off the plane.”

“Oh.” The NHS guy had covered that on _Noir at Night_ , but Vince had forgotten. “Yeah. But me—”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“I’m going to start wearing one of them doctor masks when I go out,” Vince swore. “All the things I want to bring home to you, the virus ain’t one of them.”

Howard’s thumb ran circles over Vince’s palm. His touches didn’t sketch pictures like Vince’s did; they wrote music. “’Not with a bang but a whimper,” said Howard. 

It was a quotation, Vince realized, but he didn’t want to interrupt the dreamy calm between them to ask the source. The devil’s perfect vengeance on man, Vince thought: not bombs or tsunamis but touch. Killing us softly with our need to touch. 

He tried to smile the gloom away. “You came a long way. Got to give you a better welcome than this.” He posed like a sommelier with the bottle of chilled champagne. “May it please monsieur, Pierre-Joulet Belle Epoque.” The sommelier at Clove Club had recommended it; Vince had been immediately taken by the name, French, so that meant quality, and Belle Epoque—any word with a “que” had to be classy. He fetched the wine and poured glasses. 

Howard picked up the bottle to read the label. “An era of art and culture.” 

Vince wanted an explanation, especially if it included a story, but he didn’t want to spoil the quiet mood. Don’t stop the dance, Bryan would say. He settled for raising his glass. “Live long and prosper.” As they clinked and sipped, he regretted the brevity and inelegance of the toast: if he’d left it to Howard, Howard would have found something lovely and memorable to say. 

“Live long and prosper, Vince.”


	18. MARCH 2, 2020

**"Coronavirus: Widespread Transmission in UK 'Highly Likely'"**

****\--BBC News** **

****"UK Warns Fifth of Workforce Could be off Sick from Coronavirus at its Peak; Army Prepared"** **

******\--CNBC News** ** **

********

********

An unintentional clatter, followed by a soft “Damn” dragged him out of a sound sleep. Normally he’d be moaning, pulling a pillow over his head, ignoring the aroma of French roast drifting from his automated coffeemaker, but the "damn" reminded him he had company in his kitchen and sunshine seeping through the bedroom windows. Those blackout drapes, normally tightly closed, had been opened last night. 

He slid out of bed and into his silk kimono and velvet slippers. He couldn’t wait to get out to the kitchen, where a cup and spoon would be set out, already waiting; where Howard, in Annie/Abby's apron, would be waiting. Where everything would be right as rain. 

But that was his opinion while he was half-asleep. When he rambled out to the kitchen and saw the cup and the spoon and Howard in the apron waiting for him, precisely as predicted, he began to doubt: Howard looked so relaxed, so domestic, so deserving of this life and these comforts. Just one detail in this picture needed correcting: the man who sat down at the table across from Howard. 

“What time do you need to leave for the studio?” 

“Eight. What time do you need to leave for your audition?”

“Eleven. I’ll have dinner waiting.”

Vince pushed his voice up a notch toward a hopefulness he should but didn’t feel. “Mashed potatoes?” 

“Of course. And spinach for gnocci, if I can get it. In LA, the markets are low on fresh veg. Thanks for the pease pudding last night, by the way. And the flowers.” 

A kiss, two kisses, goodbye and almost like a married couple, Vince was off to work and Howard was washing up so Annie/Abby wouldn’t think Vince’s friend from America was a pig. Howard had hired a Mytaxi to take him to Film4, rather than the Tube, so he could relax; relaxation, he explained to Vince, was necessary preparation for an audition. He just wished he could’ve put the audition off for a day, but the casting director couldn’t rearrange his schedule. “That’s all right,” Vince said, “you can sleep all afternoon. Should I bring you back something? I don’t know what’s good for jet lag.”

“Just you. Your lap is the pillow I need, your arms will be my blanket. You’re my comforter, Vince.” 

Vince cocked a grin. “Rehearsing? Because you sound kind of hammy.”

“Go to work, Vince.”

–  
As soon as he entered the BBC building, he started working. There were autographs to sign for fans on the guided tour, then on the elevator ride up to the fourth floor, there was a quick phone call to Jacquettie (alas, they wouldn’t be able to accommodate him this month; they had decided to close until the virus had passed) and another to his favorite vintage shop (his Led Zeppelin 1977 tour t-shirt had arrived and would be sent to the studio) and a third, which he took as he walked down the hallway to Chloe’s office, from a former guitar player from the Black Tubes, who was now gigging with a bassist who had done some work with Lewis Capaldi, whom Vince hoped to acquire for his show. He was still on the phone when Chloe mimed for him to hang up so the daily briefing could begin. Although they had much to cover—plans for the week’s guests, skits and monologues to be written, items from the news headlines that could become jokes—the creative team had been with _Noir at Night_ long enough to move quickly. They’d developed a sort of shorthand over the years, and each writer had his or her own specialty so that assignments didn’t get argued over, merely automatically appointed. 

Today, however, when next week’s guest list was presented, Vince figured he’d better sort through his contacts and favors-owed lists again. “Xylophone Fundadelic? This is a joke, right?”

“Uhm, no,” Coop murmured, fiddling with his legal pad. “They’re really quite entertaining. I saw them in concert and fortunately for us, they happen to be available. Whenever we want them. Anytime this month.”

“And if we don’t want them?” one of the writers smirked.

“Look, here’s the problem. Number one: new releases are on hold: no new movies, no new records, no concert tours. Nobody’s got anything to promote.” Coop seemed to have shrunk at least four inches in the past month. He normally stood tall, appearing at least six feet when in actuality he barely made five foot seven; as the chase producer for a long-running chat show, he received as much coddling from agents and record company executives as Vince did from wanna-be stars. But the coronavirus had made his job a lot less fun lately. “Number two: travel issues. Those we can usually get without something to promote—”

“The junior varsity,” someone quipped.

Coop shot the writer a nose wrinkle. “I prefer to call them ‘the everybody’s a comedian crowd.’ Because I can usually get a good comedian any time. But due to travel issues, if they don’t live in London, they don’t want to come in. It’s hard to get trains and hotels right now. Which leaves us with local B-listers, many of whom just don’t want to leave their homes and expose themselves.”

“Can’t blame ‘em. Exposing oneself to Vince Noir can be a bloody shock.”

“Hence,” Chloe surmised, “Xylophone Fundadelic. Keep trying, Coop. Vince, break out your Rolladeck. And that thousand-watt smile. Do we still have Elton John and David Furnish for the 13th?”

“It’s a lock. They’re already in town, hitting up all the chat shows, the newspapers and the important vloggers. They won’t drop out.” Coop ducked his head again. “Anyway, they called us. It’s the anniversary of the Marriage Act.”

“Sometimes, luck just whacks you over the head,” a writer mused. 

Chloe ignored the soft insults. “Now, how about the monologues? Is it cool to make jokes about coronavirus?”

“More to the point, can jokes about coronavirus be funny?” Vince pondered.

He moved on from the meeting to the easier part of his day, reviewing research files on his guests for tonight’s show while he selected his outfits for the week. He got on the phone with the vintage shop again: this time he wanted a genuine pair of Elton John glasses. At 3:15 he’d finished a lunch meeting with his agent and was plopping into the make-up chair when a text arrived on his personal phone: _Didn’t get part, they said I sounded too American. Will be home early._ Vince liked that: _be home_. It made him feel settled, or as Howard liked to say, made him feel safe. 

But at 5:20, as he, Chloe and the editors were reviewing the rough cut of that evening’s show, a text came in that threw his settled, safe feeling on the dirty ground and stomped all over it: _call me ASAP_. He tiptoed out of the control booth. They wouldn’t mind much; Chloe and the guys could take it from here. “Howard?”

“Vince?” Howard sounded rushed. “That producer I had the audition with? He has it.”

“’Has it’?”

“The coronavirus. Vince, I’ve been exposed.”  
—

Vince rang the doorbell to his own flat—rang and rang and rang, and then leaned on it, despite, or in response to, Howard’s insistent “You can’t come in! I told you that already! You can’t come in!” 

“Let me in. You have to, Howard! I can’t take care of you from out here. Besides, it’s my home! Where am I gonna sleep? How am I gonna—”

“You can’t come in, Vince! The doctor says so. Nobody can come in. You’ll have to go to hotel, or a friend’s house. You have plenty of friends you could stay with.”

He assumed he was making a reasonable argument, but suddenly the elevator door slid open and there stood Old Man Flanagan from the flat below his. Arms folded and lips upturned in disgust, Flanagan sneered, “Vincent Noir, you seem to think you own this building, just because you’re a television personality. You’ve been a constant disturbance from the day you moved in. I shall be reporting you to the management.” He pressed the elevator button. “If you want access to your flat, why don’t you use your key?”

Vince fished into his pocket and located the key. “Oh.” He inserted the key in the lock. Howard must have heard the key’s scrape, because there was a heavy thud against the door. “What are you doing, Howard?”

“I shoved an armchair against the door. Now I’m going for the couch. I’m not going to let you in. You don’t know how contagious this thing is, Vince!”

He slumped against the door, then slid to the carpet. “I do know. I have the Chief of Immunology on my show every night. I know all about it.” But that was an exaggeration. While the Chief talked, Vince’s mind was already five minutes ahead, to the next joke or the next guest. The Chief never realized; none of the guests ever did. Vince had a way of convincing people they had his undivided and compassionate attention. Oftentimes it was true. It used to be true. 

“If you know so much, what are you doing here, risking your life?”

“Howard, you might not be infected. How do you even know that producer has it?”

“Right after my audition, he went to the gents’ and vomited. I thought it might be a commentary—anyway, he canceled his other appointments and went home early. An hour later he was in hospital. His secretary gave me the news.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you have it. You were only with him a few minutes, yeah?”

“He coughed on me, Vince. And shook my hand.” 

“Oh. Well, you might not have it. You’ve got a sturdy constitution, remember? An Action Man’s hardy constitution. You don’t know yet. So you have to shut yourself in just in case, but nothing’s gonna happen. Two weeks from now, you’ll open that door and we’ll laugh, except I’ll be a little pissed off that you wasted all our time when we could’ve been together.”

“You know I’m right. No use arguing. Think about it: I give it to you, you give it to everyone out there you come within two meters of. Only your dog is safe from me. Pets and kids, Vince, only pets and kids are safe.”

“Well.” Vince yanked himself to his feet. “I’m glad Kad’s with you, at least, so you’re not completely alone.” 

“Go away, Vince. Please.” 

He slapped at the elevator buttons. 

He needed to do something. First things first: it would be dark soon; he needed a place to sleep, at least for the night, preferably nearby, in case Howard needed him. He needed a change of clothes. Maybe some medications for Howard (would it be safe for him to take aspirin? Cough syrup?) He tried to remember everything that the NHS guy had said on his show. Maybe a medical mask and hand sanitizer and bleach. He probably should grab some food somewhere, though he didn’t feel up to the trouble. 

He needed to clear his head. He wasn’t used to thinking so practically; other people did that, leaving him free to be creative and charming. Leaving him to be a party animal, nearly useless to other people, to his city, to himself. He stood up, shook himself out, glanced again at the closed and locked door behind him and walked down the hall to the elevator. Howard was right: if he got sick too, he’d be more than useless. A burden. 

He walked down the street toward Hampstead Heath. He passed a jogger, who appeared focused on her run and oblivious to traffic and passersby, and the world crumbling around her. He watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared, and he wondered if the people that surrounded him every day (or usually did, before they began to disappear too) thought of him like that, oblivious. The court jester—yeah, he could cheer people up for an hour each night, but what else was he good for? 

He should have asked Howard to shove Kadaway out the door. The dog needed to be walked. He should call Howard and tell him—what? Tell him where the puppy pads were, what time to feed the dog. What time Vince would come back to take Kadaway for a walk. 

The heath was unusually empty of people and pets. Or maybe, considering everything, “usually.” He walked, breathing deeply. His boots pinched; he’d have blisters tomorrow. He needed his trainers. 

His phone rang—Billy Swan’s “I Can Help.” He’d had Billy Swan on the show once; he should have him on again to sing this song. Was Swan English? He couldn’t remember. Sighing in relief—his personal assistant calling; something normal!--he answered the phone. 

“Hey, boss.”

“I thought we settled that: I’m Vince, not ‘boss.’” Teasing. Good. 

He could almost hear a shrug in Kerry’s voice. “Just thought I’d take a little piss out of the situation.”

“’Cause that’s what Brits do when the going gets rough.” Also good: draw on the collective wisdom, since he lacked any of his own. “Yeah. Glad you called. I have a couple of tasks for you: I need a room for the night, maybe two or three nights, and some clothes.”

“Rooms are hard to come by right now. Hotels are closed. B and B’s, hostels, everything. Maybe you could call some of your friends?”

“I’m not sure I have friends like that.”

“Hmm, yeah. Now’s not a good time to take in a house guest. I could,” Kerry paused and a note of doubt crept into his voice. “I have three flatmates, you know, but I could ask them if—”

Vince had met two of the flatmates before. He’d gotten them tickets for the show when the Black Peaks were on. That was back in the good old days, before the world went to shit. “No, that’s all right, thanks.”

“Everybody else I know is hunkered down for the duration.”

Kerry was making the situation sound like a war; it probably was. “Try the hotels. If you explain—here’s the thing: my flat’s now quarantined. A friend of mine came to visit from the States. It was gonna be brilliant, gallery openings and the zoo and the Eye and we had reservations for Nobu and tickets for _Upstart Crow_ —” Of course Kerry knew that; he’d secured the tickets. “He had an audition but when he came back to the flat he got a call and the producer’s been diagnosed so I can’t go home, I can’t even walk the dog or cook soup for Howard or get a change of clothes, if he gets it, I can’t take care of him, I can’t even hug him, when we were kids and I got sick he’d come to my house and read to me and play music, he’s a genius guitar player, he saved me from bullies more times—well, we saved each other, and if he gets it I can’t even hold his hand, I can’t even be in the same room with him.”

Kerry encouraged the release of jumbled words and confused emotions by adding small affirmative sounds. Later, Vince would feel guilty for dumping all this on a college kid, just a twenty-year-old trying to earn a little money for his tuition and get a little experience in the industry. Vince would feel even worse when that realization hit him in the face: Kerry was only twenty. Had never been out of London. Had never flown in an airplane or shaken hands with Prince Charles or got high at Glastonbury. A responsible kid, too responsible for twenty, and what if he got it too? 

But at the moment, anxiety was crushing Vince’s sense of empathy, and he could only spout off his worries for Howard. “He’s my best friend, all my life, took care of each other, and I can’t help him, useless, can’t even make him soup. I love him and he might die and I’ve never treated him right. How can I take care of him when I can’t even get in the flat?”

“Tell him,” Kerry urged. “Though I bet he knows. Vince, you’re the most demonstrative person I know.”

“I told him,” Vince admitted, “but I don’t think he believes it. I’m a right selfish bastard.” He didn’t used to be; he used to be considerate and kind. When had that changed? 

Kerry didn’t try to argue with him. Did that mean he agreed? “Given the circumstances, I probably can get a hotel to rent you a room. Everybody’s feeling like they want to do something to help. We all feel so helpless as it is.”

“You’re not. You’ve saved my skin dozens of times.”

“Thanks, boss. I’ll ring you back after I’ve got you a hotel room.”

Vince pulled in and released a lungful of London air. Useless, but not hopeless. He could do better. He dialed his phone. “Howard? I’m sorry. I acted like a titbox.”

“Me too. I’m just scared. For both of us.” It wasn’t like Howard to admit he was afraid. He’d always protected Vince, even from himself. Sharing his bravery, even when it was fake, and his knowledge and his bigness, that was how Howard took care of Vince, and in turn Vince shared his energy and good humor. In the old days, Howard would get down sometimes and couldn’t climb back up; that was when Vince could be useful. Maybe he still could be.

“Me too. Well, we’ll just have to find our way around this. I’m picking up some things. Can I get you cough syrup or flu medicine? What did the doctor say?”

“Not yet. I don’t have any symptoms yet. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have some things on hand, in case.”

“No, Howard, don’t think— you’re right, It wouldn’t hurt. Give me your list, anything you can think of. There should be enough food in the pantry for the week but if there’s anything special you’d like. . . some soup?” His voice cracked and hearing it break, he broke. Right there in the center of Hampstead Heath, for all of London to see, if any of London was out and about. He didn’t care. _The Sun_ could take all the pictures they wanted. A man had a right to cry once in a while, didn’t he? For a loved one? 

“Aw, Vince, don’t cry. I’ll cry too,” Howard crooned. 

“Just scared.” His nose was dripping. A couple of teens hanging out at the swings—there were no little kids in the playground—were staring at him. They were too far away to hear his conversation or see his tears, but he turned his back to them, in case they recognized him. Common sense sometimes went out the window when people spotted a celebrity. Just last month, when he was using the gents’ at the Tate, a woman followed him in to ask for an autograph. Remembering that, he chuckled, and then he had to share the joke with Howard. They laughed harder than the anecdote deserved. 

Howard rattled off a short list of items he wanted, including face masks and hand sanitizer “not for me, for you. You’re still out there, braving the cold streets, like Hillary and the great mountaintop.”

“Actually, it’s pretty warm today and there’s not many people on the streets. But that sounded nice, Howard; you’re still a poet. I’ll run over to the druggist’s, then Sainsbury’s. Give me about an hour. I’ll drop it off at the door—I won’t try to come in; I promise. And you can send Kadaway out with his leash; he’ll need to be walked.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t even do that.” Howard sounded bitter. “Or bring up your mail or cook a nice dinner for you like I planned.”

“There’ll be time later, Howard.”

“I’m supposed to be back in LA on April 1. I have meetings. I have a treatment I’m supposed to be writing.” 

The worry was rising again; Vince had to talk him down. That was what Vince did, brought sunshine. “You can do that now. I won’t be grabbing your jacket sleeve to drag you out to clubs and zoos. You can work in quiet. I’ll listen—you can read to me what you’re writing and I’ll be your audience, like I used to, with the poetry. We’ll get around this, Buffalo Man. We’re clever people, aren’t we, you and me?”

“We’ve got imagination, Little Man. A powerful, powerful. . . power. Hey, we conquered Monkey Hell, didn’t we? You don’t think a little pipsqueak bug, a little cowardly, snivelly bug. . . .Hey, bring me a bag of satsumas, will you?” 

Vince chuckled. Howard didn’t like satsumas, but the fruit symbolized something about their relationship. Vince was never sure what, but it was important. Right now, it was enough that Howard was giving him tasks, an excuse to be busy. A sense, however made-up, of being helpful to Howard. That was what they did for each other: made each other feel important. You can help me. Only you, Howard. Only you, Vince. 

He started back in the direction he’d come. He’d need his car, parked right now in a space reserved for him at his commonhold. He glanced back at the teens on the swing set. They looked hungry. 

His phone rang again. “Hello, Mr. Noir? It’s Annie. Your housekeeper?”

“Oh!” Facepalm; he’d forgotten to notify her. “I’m sorry. In all the confusion—I should’ve called.”

“I went over to your place to work—he wouldn’t let me in. He yelled at me to go away. There’s a sign on the door: ‘quarantine. No admittance.’”

He explained, then instructed her to stay home; her salary would continue regardless.

“When do you want me to come back?”

“When it’s safe. That’s all I can say. When the virus has passed and we can go back out again and be human beings again.”

“All right. But Mr. Noir? Who’s going to cook for you?”  
—

He had cantaloupes in each hand, pretending to weigh them, as if that was how he judged their ripeness. What did he know about cantaloupes? But the clerk—under its face mask, he couldn’t tell if the clerk was male or female—was watching with that “I know you” expression, and he didn’t want it in _The Sun_ tomorrow that Vince Noir couldn’t do his own shopping. Howard liked cantaloupe, all melons, really, except grapefruit, and some melon and citrus would be nice for breakfast; their squirting juice would make Howard laugh; their bright happy colors would cheer him up. Sunshine in a rind. If they could have breakfast together, they could make a crimp of it. 

He released both cantaloupes into his basket and moved on to the vegetables. 

—  
He set the groceries at his flat door and knocked the old code knock, the one he and Howard hadn’t used since their teen years. He didn’t have to wonder if Howard remembered: “Hello, Vince. Don’t come in!”

“’Course not. Here’s the stuff. I brought some extras, fresh fruit and veg that I know you’d like.” And that nobody needed—Annie had gone shopping two days ago—but that Vince needed to buy, for his emotional well being. “I think I did a good job, if I do say so.”

“Thanks, Vince. I’m sending Kadaway out.” There was some scrabbling, then a woof, then the dog bounded out, dragging his leash. Vince was lavished with kisses—the only kisses a person could safely receive right now—before the dog leaped to the elevator, grunting to be let outside. 

Vince followed. He had a job to do.  
—

Alone, Vince was pacing back and forth across his room at the Shoreditch Qbic. His stomach growled. The hotel’s bar was closed; in fact, the hotel itself was technically closed, providing rooms only to key workers, but Kerry, after explaining the situation, had managed to secure one for Vince. On the bed lay a suitcase which contained stage clothes Kerry had salvaged from Vince’s office at the BBC and some things his flatmates had donated to the cause: socks, a pair of stained jeans and a Spuds Mackenzie t-shirt with a hole under one arm. Tomorrow, Kerry would ring Harrod’s and try to secure some proper street attire. On the little wooden desk near the bed sat a bottle of Qbic water and a Shoreditch Fish & Chips bag, still warm. Vince missed Annie’s light suppers warming in his cooker. Vince missed Annie, though he couldn’t remember having ever met her. He missed his dog, though he was glad that Howard would have some form of company tonight. He missed Bollo and Naboo and the Nabootique. He even missed Kerry, who used to greet him with a hug—but that was before the virus. 

It had been a long time since he’d eaten any chips, thanks to Annie. He wasn’t sure his nearly-fifty-year-old stomach could handle the grease, so he blotted the meal with napkins and, with a dubious poke at them, he sporked up a pair of chips. They were greasy, all right, but they would do. He sat down on the bed with his bag and his bottle. As he ate, he wondered how Howard was feeling. He wondered if Howard was awake with worry or sleeping comfortably under the Sunshine quilt, the one that a fan had presented him on his birthday last year. It had taken her a full year to complete the project: she worked on it every night as she watched his show. He wondered if, two weeks from now, Howard would emerge from his Highgate lockdown like a grizzly coming out of hibernation, and he’d complain about how boring it had all been, what a waste of time, when they could have been together. Would they chuckle about their health scare? Would Howard, after a long hug, then permit him to sweep him off to Absolute Vintage? Or would they ease their aching joints in the commonhold hot tub, drinking Bailey’s and kicking ideas around for the script? 

Or would Howard, sometime in those two weeks, be hauled off to an ICU? 

Out of napkins, he wiped his greasy fingers on a flannel and pressed the keys on his phone. He tried to think of something upbeat to offer when Howard picked up, but what burst out of his chest, when a gruff “Vince?” replied to the ringing, was a yelped “Howard? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine, so far. I was just lying in bed, reading. It takes a few days before the symptoms show themselves.”

“If they show themselves.”

“Yeah. Your lips to God’s ear. I’m okay. Where are you?”

“Shoreditch. This cool hotel called the Qbic.”

“Aren’t the hotels closed?”

“Sort of. This one’s open for key workers. Which, I know, I’m not, but Kerry arranged it. I can stay until I get someplace else. Kerry’s got real estate agents on the job.” He stretched out on the bed. “It’s nice here. I wish you could see it.”

“I wish I could see you. We could, you know. You have an iPhone, yeah?”

“Errrm, yeah?” 

“Look at the back. Is there a logo like a bitten-into apple?”

He felt a little more confident now. “Yeah. I always thought that meant Beatles.”

“You’ve got an iPhone. That means you have a Facetime app. You might also have a Skype app. Look at your desktop to see. It’ll say Skype underneath.”

“Just a minute. . . nope.”

“Well, some other time, I’ll walk you through how you download it and create an account. Or I can teach you how to Facetime. For now, I imagine you’re rather tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. Did you get something to eat?”

“Yeah. There was leftover pie. But, all things considered, I don’t have an appetite today.” 

“Maybe a drink? There’s a nice Merlot in the cabinet.”

Howard chuckled. “I remember when we considered ourselves lucky if we could afford a Bud Light at the pub.”

“Good times, Howard.”

“Good times. Hey, is the Pineapple still open? When I get out of here, I’ll treat you to an IPA.”

“March 16.” 

“March 16?”

“The day you’re released.” 

“I’ll mark it on the calendar. Vince, where’s your wall calendar?”

“The kitchen, beside the fridge.”

“Hey, it has pictures of LA. I’ll take you there someday. That’s a promise.”


	19. MARCH 3, 2020

**"Coronavirus: Boris Johnson Presents the UK's Action Plan to Tackle Virus"**

**\--BBC News**

“Hey, Vince, I needed something to do, so I’ve been reorganizing your shoe racks and your closets. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” Well, that was a half-truth. He’d kept his footwear arranged by trends first, then comfort level second.

“I started to clean, but—”

“Yeah, Annie keeps the rest of the place spotless. My closets are off-limits to her dust rag.” 

“Oh! So I stepped over the line. I’m sorry, Vince.”

“No, Howard, for you, there is no line.”

A relieved sigh came from the other end. “I can put it all back the way it was.”

“Not necessary. Whenever I reach for a pair of shoes, I’ll think of you.”

Howard sounded pleased. “Thank you, that’s a nice tribute. I like to think I brought order to your life, back in the day. Say, I wanted to ask about your painting: you started concentrating on abstracts, after we moved to Dalston, didn’t you?”

“Pretty much. Remember my birthday week in 2007, when Bryan took me to Paris to study art? We went to L’espace Dali, a museum dedicated to Dali. Blew the top right off of my head, it did.”

“I remember. You went around painting melted clocks on everything: the sheets, the curtains, the grocery bags, the clocks.”

Vince chuckled. “I did, didn’t I? Until I figured out I could never be Dali.”

“I think you were quite good as Noir.”

“Thank you. But when a Dali goes for 5 million and a Noir goes for a grand, it changes your view of what’s good.” 

“Well, the price tag doesn’t always signify quality. There was that Jackson Pollack that sold for five bucks—sorry, four pounds. And didn’t Picasso used to draw things on napkins and trade them for a meal?”

“There is a legend like that. Why are you asking about my paintings?”

“Well, I saw a bunch of them shoved into the back of the closet. Some of them, I could see why they were there—”

“Thanks, Howard,” Vince said dryly.

“Well, some of them weren’t finished, some had drip marks or scratches, some of them I think you painted while you were drunk.”

“That’s probable.”

“But a lot of them were the same subject. I took them out to see them in the daylight. They were pretty good, I thought, as good as the ones you hung up in the bedrooms.”

“That’s not unusual, Howard. An artist will do half a dozen of the same subject, trying out different colors and shading, angles, settings, expressions—I did twelve or fifteen Bryans before I finally got one good enough to exhibit. Bryan and Charis and Chloe got a few as Christmas presents. Some of them I painted over, the rest went into storage.”

“Well, the subject here is someone I never met. I know we were apart for thirteen years, and we both met a lot of other people, but this one caught my eye.” Vince caught his breath; an image was beginning to form in his mind, of a mustached, curly-haired man from a couple of years ago. Howard continued, “The thing is, I was wondering, the nose and the mouth are different, but. . . is that me in those paintings?”

Vince couldn’t decide how to answer. Which was less hurtful: to betray Howard’s trust by lying to him or to bruise their newly mended relationship by telling the truth? If he started to answer, he’d have to go all the way; Howard wouldn’t settle for less. 

Howard continued, “I don’t know much about interpreting art. I see a melted clock, I think: gossakes, who threw that clock in a kiln? But I’ve been watching you paint since you were seven, and I know which colors and strokes mean you’re mad, which mean you’re depressed—and the way you did these paintings, it’s obvious this person wasn’t a paid model or a—what’s the term? The composite people Vermeer painted?”

“Tronie.”

“You usually paint fast, without a lot of planning. From the subconscious. And highly stylized. But these portraits, they’re more realistic, like you wanted to remember what this person really looked like but a camera couldn’t get it right.”

“Well, I might’ve. . . I was experimenting, to see if I could paint the way I was taught to, back in school, after so many years of surrealism.”

“It’s clear this person is someone you were close to. The colors are softer and more literal. The strokes are fuller and gentler. Was he posing for you?”

“Sometimes. Some were based on photos or sketches.”

“Those paintings you gave Bryan back in the ‘90s, the ones in his bedroom and the hallway—or at least, I assume they’re still hung there.”

“Yeah, he’s not one for moving his furniture around.”

“They’re more like realistic portraits. I think, Vince, that most of the time, what you paint is for the public to see. It’s fun, fantastical, cartoonish, it’s you at play. But when you paint a realistic portrait, it’s private, between you and the subject. It’s an attempt to capture a moment as it really happened.”

“And an attempt to capture how I really feel, not paved over with jokes,” Vince admitted. “I suspect you’re right.”

“So those paintings in your closet, are they how you feel about me?”

When he’d allowed the question to go this far, he’d been worried about how Howard would feel to learn about the agent. But the truth was, he was more worried about how much of himself those paintings revealed. “There was a man. I cared for him, more than he cared to be cared for. We started out in agreement to keep things light. I wanted to violate the agreement. I never told him; I don’t know if he figured it out. He got busy, I got busy, we saw each other less, we stopped calling. I couldn’t tell you where he is now or who he’s with. I didn’t keep track of him. Vice versa, probably. But I kept painting those portraits for months after, until I realized it wasn’t him I was painting.”

“It was me.” Howard’s voice cracked. “Vince. . . .”

“And they’re in the back of the closet, not because I didn’t want visitors to see them, but because I’m the Sunshine Kid, yeah? I’m fantastical cartoon characters. And that’s what gets me jobs and dates; that’s who everyone likes and expects to meet when they meet me. All. . . pretty and colorful on the outside, full of air.” 

Howard’s voice dropped in shame. “I’m sorry you felt you had to live like that. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

“You made me feel safe. You and your mum and your crazy loud sisters, even your dad; I never felt I had to put on a mask when I was at yours. Bryan, too; he made me feel accepted from the very first, and when he finally adopted me, I was sure I had someone to belong to. But I was a greedy little bitch, wasn’t I? Still am. I wanted everyone to want me.”

“But you let me, Bryan and my folks see you, whole. I’m glad of that, Vince. The lot of us are a safe place for each other, don’t you think?”

“Me too?” Vince’s eyelashes dampened. “You trust me like that? Even after—”

“We’re not going to talk about those events any more, remember? They don’t exist any more. Because if your stuff exists, so does mine, and we’re never going to move on from it. And Vince? That was a long long time ago when we were mental.”

“You mean we’re sane now? My fans will be so disappointed.”

“Come on, Vince.”

“Yeah, I’m avoiding. We’re different now.”

“All grown up.”

“All grown up.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have a satsuma fight now ‘n' then.”


	20. MARCH 4, 2020

His phone vibrated in the middle of the morning staff meeting. Normally he’d ignore it, but with Howard teetering on the edge of trouble, Vince broke off the dialog and reached for his phone. Everyone understood; some of them had sick relatives. He sequestered himself in a corner of the office. The phone indicated the source of the call and his fingers shook a little as he answered. “So soon? He was only exposed two days ago,” he pleaded, instead of giving the polite greeting.

“No, no, he’s okay,” Laurie assured him. “I just needed to talk to you a minute. I went over to see him. I thought I’d bring him some cinnamon muffins. He loves my baking, you know. I brought him some clothes that he left at mine, back when he moved to California. Out of date and they might not fit as well any more, but maybe he can use them. He wouldn’t let me in. We talked through the door. He wouldn’t even open it a crack so we could see each other. He kept telling me he’s okay, no symptoms. He expects when the two weeks are over he’ll walk out, fat and sassy from sitting around the house doing nothing. He made me leave before he’d take the stuff I brought him. Sorry, Vince, I know you’re probably busy, getting ready for work, but I was hoping I could come by and see you for a little bit. Howard says you’re in a hotel?”

“Yeah, but I’m at work right now. You want to meet me somewhere for lunch?”

She sounded confused as well as frustrated. “But your show doesn’t go on until 10:30. I thought—”

“We film in the afternoon. We usually have a pretty normal work schedule.”

“Oh. Sorry. No, I’m going back to Leyton; I’ve got a lot of work to do. It feels kinda creepy here, anyway, like everybody’s ready to jump out of their skin if someone sneezes. I just. . .” She sighed, then blurted, “I just don’t know what to do. Mum’s in a dither; she wanted to come with, but I told her stay put until I find out what’s going on. Even Bruce is worried. I just don’t what to do.”

“There isn’t much anyone can do. For now, it’s a waiting game. He might be right, he’ll come out of this healthy as a water buffalo.”

“What can I do?” She gulped back tears.

“Keep your phone with you all the time. I’ll call if things change.”

“At least there’s one good thing: he’s back in London. If he was still in LA, who’d take care of him?”  
—-

Under better circumstances, he might have taken Howard to a party tonight after work. Under better circumstances, he might have taken Howard to an art show tonight. He and Howard might have even turned in early, if Howard were here.

Under better circumstances, he wouldn’t have spent his lunch hour on the phone, negotiating with the manager of a block of flats which Kerry had found—directly across the street from Vince’s Chandler Court. If he won this negotiation, he'd have a place to stay across from his temporarily former home. If the street wasn’t too noisy—and these days, the street didn’t have much going on—he probably could chat with Howard from the balconies. He would win this negotiation. The cost was irrelevant, the flat’s lack of furniture, carpeting and appliances and half-finished paint job were irrelevant; Vince would have it. If only he could be sitting in the Charter Manor leasing office instead of in his office, so the manager could see his charming smile and accept a patented Vince Noir hug in pre-approval gratitude before he signed the lease, for however long she wanted it to be, for however much rent she wanted to charge. Over the phone, the best he could do was to make his voice warm and easy, but not too funny. 

They’d argued for ten full minutes about the flat’s condition. It was under renovation, having been recently vacated by long-time tenants. With paint cans and broken bathroom tiles and no refrigerator, it wasn’t livable, she insisted; he insisted he didn’t care, he’d happily pay full price anyway. She insisted that the painters and tilers couldn’t return to finish their work until the virus scare passed, at which time they would want to get in as fast as possible, because they were behind schedule. He said he didn’t care; they were welcome to work around him, if he was still living there; besides, he only needed the flat for one or two months. He would gladly pay a half-year’s rent. That made her suspicious: what was so special about this location? She became even more suspicious when he explained about Howard: would Vince be infecting her building with the killer virus? Vince assured her he would get tested before he moved in, and she could put in a clause to that effect into the lease. Then she didn’t like his reputation as a party animal: he’d given up that lifestyle, he explained; it wasn’t conducive to his current job. She could check his references with Calf Eyes Productions and with his landlord. Then she didn’t like his occupation: people coming in and out of her building after 10 pm, raising a racket. He assured her—and she could put that into the lease—that there would be no noise. Then she didn’t like his dog—and Vince assured her Kadaway would live across the street with Howard, visiting Vince only occasionally. 

He would pay six months’ rent up front, in full. And yes, he could get her Tom Jones’ autograph. Personalized.

She would send the lease by bicycle courier this evening. He could move in on the 8th, even though it was a Sunday—the churches were closed anyway.

He waited in his hotel room for the courier. Sunday normally would’ve been a problem for him, but this was his first weekend in longer than he could remember that he didn’t have some sort of social event. If he were at home, he would fill the empty hours by painting, playing in the park with Kadaway, walking through the zoo or a gallery or the Tate or attending a West End matinee. Or maybe not: he liked to think he’d grown up enough in recent years to be more responsible than to ignore the stay-at-home suggestions. When he saw in the news photos of people holding parties or canoodling in the park, his nerves grated and he wanted to yell at them “Two meters, two meters, you nimbies!” He’d have liked to think he was respectful enough of the NHS and conscientious enough of other people that he would follow social distancing guidance, but he wasn’t sure. If he’d gone to an art show today, he might have instinctively shaken hands with gallery owner and hugged the artist. 

He wasn’t the only one waiting. Kerry had rented a U-Haul and borrowed a key for one of the BBC storage units. Sunday, assuming the lease went through, Kerry and his flatmates would load up the truck with a couch, a table, a desk and a few chairs from a canceled sitcom. Howard’s brother-in-law Bruce was providing a portable camping stove; the captain of Naboo’s bowling team loaned out a pair of lamps. Leroy had an inflatable mattress he used when musicians too poor for hotels would sleep on his floor. Bryan was donating bedding, towels and dishes to the cause. Vince tried to be grateful but he’d lived in his commonhold for so long that his body had reshaped itself to the Duxiana mattress and the Ecart Paris couch. He should be grateful, and each of the owners who loaned him stuff believed him to be sincerely grateful, but as these arrangements were being made, he briefly, just briefly, thought of his new situation as a single step up from sleeping rough. Vince shook himself out, ashamed of that thought, because if Howard developed the virus, he might soon be sleeping rough under a ventilator, and there were sick and hungry people right now sleeping rough under bridges and overpasses. 

More important than the camping gear and the sheets, Vince had a network of friends and friends-of-friends. There were phone numbers of “business friends” in his Rolodex—people he could, and did, call for appearances on his show or inside information about the entertainment industry; people who couldn’t be asked to help move furniture but who could lead him to job contacts, if worse came to worst. Knowing this, he told himself, released him from worry, leaving him free to concentrate on taking care of Howard. 

And leaving him with that sensation of ants crawling up his pants leg, because he had what too many people didn’t, and he wondered how those other people managed to concentrate on taking care of their sick loved ones.


	21. MARCH 6, 2020

“I had a visitor today.”

“You didn’t let her in, did you?”

“Him. ‘Course not. He stood outside the door and we talked a bit. It was Bruce. He brought me some DVDs; I can’t get enough juice on my iPhone to stream movies. I’d mentioned to Laurie that I’d sorted through your DVD collection—put them in order of their medium, then alpha; I hope you don’t mind—”

With Howard, you couldn’t mind new and complex reorganization of your stuff. He was a compulsive cataloger, no use arguing about it. Though Vince had no idea what medium order meant. “Nah.”

“I’ve watched all your A-C’s, from _Adams Family_ and _Astro Boy_ to _Columbo_. I, ah, craved something a bit more artistic—”

“I’ve got _The Complete Bob Ross_.”

“I know you do. I meant—”

A chance to show off how much more sophisticated he’d become since their separation. “Like Bunuel and Kenneth Anger and Maya Deren and that.” 

Howard sounded impressed. “Yes. You’ve seen their work?”

“Yeah, at festivals.”

“Oh? Experimental film never was your cup of tea.”

“I can’t say it is, but I kinda have an idea who’s who now.”

“Were you. . .did you go with someone?”

“No. I went alone.”

“How did—experimental film can be difficult for a newbie.”

“I struck up conversations with people, afterward.”

“What made you go? Oh, wait, I can guess: you had Herzog on your show as a guest.” 

Vince deliberated a long moment. A smart quip could get him out of this uncomfortable situation right quick. A white lie would come easily enough; he could make it sound believable even to Howard. “You. You made me go.”

“Me? How?”

“The first festival, back in 2008, they were showing some Haabemaasters. After that, I just thought, if you came back, we’d have something in common.”

“Oh, Vince.” There was a silence, then Howard’s voice brightened. “In 2008, I went to five Jedward concerts.”

Vince chuckled. “I’m sorry you had to sit through that. It was the only job I could get at the time, in music.”

“It wasn’t bad. At least I got to see you.”

“Why didn’t you come backstage?”

“I didn’t think you—that it would okay.”

“Well, we’re together now, aren’t we? That’s what matters.”

“I don’t know how ‘together’ we are, but I think I’d rather be here like this than playing golf with Tarantino.”

“Hoooooward. . . .”

“You’re right. Not here like this, but here, with you.”

“I could go for that. Even if we had to watch every film Haabemaaster ever made.”


	22. MARCH 7, 2020

“Howard, are you okay?”

“No symptoms yet, Little Man. Just boredom. A little bit of a headache—I always get those when I’m frustrated. I’ve been trying to work on that script for Tim Burton, but it’s going nowhere fast. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Keeping busy, so I don’t worry as much. Howard, are you sleepy?”

“No. Are you?”

“No. There’s a show on tonight. ITV. Wanna watch it together?”

“Give me a minute to find the remote. . . All right, got it on. What is this?”

“It’s quite popular. Debuted in January; tonight starts the second series.” Vince clicked on the TV hanging above the bed.

“A favorite of yours? What’s it called?”

“ _The Masked Singer_. It’s an international thing. I mean, each country has its own version. It’s in the States. Haven’t you seen it?”

“I don’t own a television. Whoa, that’s some wild costume. Vince, why’s that guy dressed up like a chicken? Is this a comedy act or is Elton John auctioning off his closet?”

“Just watch a couple of minutes. It’ll become clear.”

Vince could hear the sound from his own television coming through his phone. He muted the hotel TV and listened to the show vicariously, adding occasional comments along with Howard’s: compliments or complaints about the singing or the arrangement of a song, or, more frequently, surprised or befuddled remarks about the costumes. Every so often Howard would guess at the masked singer’s identity, although the sum total of his knowledge about British pop singers, athletes, models and influencers could fit on the head of a pin with room left for angels to dance. 

“Hey, this one’s dressed up as a—a what?” Vince listened closely for Howard’s perplexed reaction to the celebrity, dressed in a life-size plastic barrel with “Flying Saucers” printed across the chest; the singer’s face was masked with a shiny pastel yellow disk. “What is that?” The show’s MC, Joel Dommett, introduced the performer as “The Flying Saucer.” 

In the background Vince could faintly hear the first notes of “Rebel Rebel.” He watched the figure on the TV screen throw some shapes in time with the song.

Howard fell silent until the performance had ended. “I think I. . . it sounded familiar. . . .”

Vince caught his breath. “What’s familiar?”

“I don’t know. The way he dances. His phrasing. What were the clues about him, again?”

“I don’t remember. The clues will be repeated next week, along with new clues.”

“Anyway, he did a pretty good job; he stayed in tune. It’s obvious he’s not a professional singer though. Or a dancer. But he can work the stage, so. . . an actor?”

“Maybe.” 

“Now here comes a Martian. I can see why you like the show, Vince. It’s what the Americans call a ‘Golden Turkey.’ So bad it’s entertaining. Thanks for introducing it to me. I needed a laugh.”

“Who’s your favorite character so far?” Vince bit his lip as he awaited the answer.

“Oh, the chicken. By far.”

Vince pushed his face into a pillow and yelped.


	23. MARCH 8, 2020

Moving won’t take too long when you have four people on the job, three of them university age, and very little furniture. In less than two hours Vince’s new digs were set up. The roaches he found housed inside an electrical outlet gave him second thoughts; he wondered if extermination companies had closed down. He could assign that search to Kerry, but Kerry had already gone above and beyond. It was time for Vince Noir, TV star, to start tending to his own needs. He ordered pizza delivery; as the men ate, he wondered if he should offer them a tip. Did they expect one, or had they done this work for Kerry’s sake? When he was seven years old, Bryan had started tutoring him in the art of tipping, but friends-of-employees hadn’t been discussed. Vince wished Bryan were here to advise him.

He didn’t have Bryan’s savior faire, but he did have Noir charm, so he took Kerry aside and addressed the issue. “You blokes have done me a massive favor. I’d like to—I know how tight it can be when you’re just starting out.” Although Bryan had sent him through university, Vince had earned his own way after that. “You went beyond the expectations of your job; I’ll be adding to your pay packet this week. Would your friends be okay with me offering some money?”

Kerry grinned. “Thanks. I think they would.”

Vince answered with a grin. He followed Kerry back to the kitchen, then offered cash to each mover. “Unexpected but most welcome,” said the English major. “Thanks, man. We’ll be back to move you out,” said the American studies major. 

“Anything more for today, boss?”

“No, thanks. Usual time, usual place tomorrow.” 

“Good deal. Let’s go, dudes.” Kerry took a final doubtful look at the inflated mattress. “Have a good night, boss. Hope your friend feels better.”

Vince walked out on his new balcony and watched the boys drive away, then reached for his phone. “All right, Howard?”

“Just trying to write that treatment. Uhm, Vince, I hate to ask, but the dust bin’s full—”

“Set it out in the hallway. I’ll take it down when I come to walk Kadaway. Now step out on the balcony.”

“What’s this about?” Through the phone Vince could hear footsteps and the rasp of the french doors opening. 

A whoosh of relief swept over him as he saw Howard, tall, strong and fit, for the first time in nearly a week. He pocketed the phone, forgetting to hang up, and jumped up and down, waving both arms wildly and shouting, “HOWAAAAARD!” 

The Chandler doorman poked his head out from the foyer, but before he could act, Howard finally spotted Vince and waved back, but in warning. “Vince!” He hissed into the phone. “Hush! Mr. Flanagan.”

“Aw, I don’t care,” Vince kept yelling. “I’ll send him some flowers.” He wondered if there was a species that meant: Shut up you old git. “Howard! I told you I was moving today. Here I am!”

“What? You bought a place across the street?”

“Not bought, leased. Now I can help you, Howard.”

“You can’t come in.”

“Right, but if you need anything, you can yell across at me and I’ll bring it to you, quick smart.”

Howard thrust his palm downward. “Vince, get on your phone. Yelling’s ungentlemanly.”

“Oh, all right.” Vince pretended to grumble. “Let’s talk this way. I like being able to see you.”

“You could see me by Facetime or Skype if you’d only catch up with the rest of the world.”

“Why would I want a—what’s it called—firewall between us when I can see you in the flesh?”

“Wait a minute. I’m getting a chair and a coat. It’s cold today.”

So they sat like that, bundled, Howard in his Chiswick banker coat and Vince in his infamous feathery red coat, on their respective balconies, peering at each other as they chatted until the sun went down. When Howard sneezed, Vince stood, “Are you catching a cold? Do you need some Night Nurse?”

“No, no, just the night air. I’m going in now, Vince. Ring you in the morning before you leave for work.”

“How about some books? Magazines?” Howard wouldn’t like any of the reading material on Vince’s shelves. 

“No, no. I have some things downloaded on my iPad and my Kindle. Don’t forget the dog and the trash.”

“Just set ‘em out in the hall. And put Kadaway’s pack on. He’s going shopping with me.”

A brisk walk to the chemist’s and then back to the new apartment. Vince had stuffed in a package of plastic gloves, a bottle of Night Nurse—the liquid; Howard disliked taking pills—, a box of bridge mix (a Howard favorite), a package of plain white pants, and copies of _Jazzwise_ and _Global Explorer_. To the gloves he attached a note: “Wear when petting Kad, so he won’t carry virus on his fur.” The night having settled in, Vince shivered in his coat. He was tired after a long day, and he had to be in at the BBC by nine tomorrow. Crouching to pet the dog, he instructed, “Howard needs you tonight, Kad. He’s all alone and kinda scared. I want you to watch out for him, yeah?” He straightened and gestured to the Chandler. “Go home, Kadaway.” The dog lifted a paw and shifted his weight as if to move, but waited for his master to accompany him. “Go home, Kad. Take Howard his things.”

Kadaway made an uncertain sound in his throat, but with another gesture from Vince, he trotted across the street. The doorman saw the dog coming and opened for him; the dog trotted inside without looking back. “Not coming, Mr. N.?”

Vince waved and shook his head. He probably should inform the Chandler staff of the situation; there would be hell to pay if they found out Howard had developed coronavirus and Vince had never informed them. But Howard might not have the virus; no need to alarm anyone, yet. And if he did get sick, they might kick Howard out. Vince would need to talk to a lawyer about that. Charis could hook him up with a good attorney. Life, all figured out just a week ago, had become complicated.

It occurred to Vince that the universe had intentionally screwed up this arrangement: it should’ve been him who got the virus. Howard was so much more suited to the caregiver role.

Vince turned and walked into the Charter.

—-  
He woke up a few minutes before his alarm was to go off, to the sound of whining and scratching on wood. Chilled in only his pants—his slippers and kimono were still back at the Chandler—he padded to the door and pressed his hand against it. “Kadaway?” His voice was thick with sleep. He spoke softly to avoid disturbing the neighbors: he wasn’t supposed to have a dog in the building. Kerry—no, Vince—would have to renegotiate that. An extra fee, perhaps a dinner with Tom Jones? (Thank God, Jones owed Bryan a favor for having rescued his garden from snails.) 

The dog woofed an answer. Vince allowed him in; he was equipped with leash and pack, which tipped Vince off that Howard had prepared him. He wondered why Howard hadn’t phoned first, until he discovered he’d forgotten to charge his phone last night. “You’re early, boy. I should buy you a watch.” While Kadaway waited at the bathroom entrance, Vince pulled on his tracksuit and trainers, then went to insert a hastily drawn card, a lovely melon and a bag of bear claws for Howard into the pack. To his surprise, there was a treat waiting in the pack: Howard’s Kindle, with a sheet of instructions taped to the cover. “Please read _The Headless Horseman_. See if you get any ideas on how I might start my treatment. And read _Candide_ too. I was thinking someday you and I ought to do a stage play, you as Candide, me as Pangloss. I could so readily capture the ironic unwavering optimism of the philosopher, while you, my big-eyed innocent, would make a lovely Candide.” 

“I’m not an actor,” Vince told the air, “but for you, I’d try.” At least he’d not suffer from the Chokes. “P.S,” the note concluded. “I wore gloves while writing this note. P.P.S. I love you.” 

He bent to pick up the leash and stroke the dog’s ears. “You have important work to do, Kad. You are the Lassie of Highgate.”  
—-  
At lunchtime he phoned the attorney Charis had referred him to. “They can’t kick you out,” the attorney said, “or Howard either, even if he gets sick, and even if you can’t make the association payments. That’s by law, Coronavirus Act 2020. It doesn’t take effect until the 25th, but you’re safe nevertheless. Right now, you don’t need to do anything except keep me informed if the situation changes.” 

He rushed home after work—it wasn’t hard; there wasn’t much of a traffic jam. Then out onto his balcony, with his recharged phone, to converse with his Howard. The sun had already set, but in the fading light, the balcony lights and the streetlamps, they could see one another’s outlines. “No symptoms yet, except boredom and writer’s block.”

“I started reading _Headless_ at lunch. Thank you. No ideas yet. But Howard, I have something else that might fill some time and help you relax.”

“Go on, Vince.” He sounded doubtful but willing to try.

“All right.” Vince sat on the floor of his balcony. “Can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“Sit like I do. Crosslegged. With your calves on top. The lotus position.” Howard made a noise of protest and pain. “Okay, maybe later. For now, just sit regular crosslegged. You must be comfortable.” 

“What are we doing, Vince?” Howard had to unbutton his coat to accommodate his sitting style. 

“You know _The Secret Policeman’s Ball_?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“A charity variety show. I hosted it once. I met a comedian there, Russell Brand. We hanged out—hung out?—a bit and became friends. Anyway, you know how hard it can be to unwind after a live show, but instead of going out to clubs, he took me to a yoga center and taught me how to meditate. That’s what you and me are doing tonight: meditating.”

Howard hung his head in surrender, then shrugged off his coat. “All right, Vince. Teach me. But when we’re through, we’re going to go back inside, get into our jim-jams and I’m going to read _The Headless Horseman_ to you.”

“Oooh, I need my teddy bear for that. Send Kadaway back with it.”

“You don’t need a security blanket, Little Man. You have my dulcet tones to soothe you.”

“Yes, Howard.”


	24. MARCH 9, 2020

This afternoon as he was taping his show (his guests were the greens manager for _Downton Abbey_ , a chef whose Vietnamese-Italian fusion restaurant would open tomorrow, and a duo called Rock Harps) he had trouble concentrating. He smiled his trademark smile, he made a few improvised quips, but in the interviews he stuck to the written questions and, to be honest, he wasn’t really listening to the answers. A short time after the red lights on the cameras had switched on, his producer walked onto the set. “Vince, you okay? You don’t seem your cuddly self today.”

“I’m worried.” He’d told Chloe about Howard this morning—well, not everything, just the virus parts. “Howard’s been my best friend ever since we started school.”

“We could run ‘best of’s’ for a few days, until you know something definite. Or utilize a guest host.” 

“I know. But I’d like to keep going. It’s kind of—I guess I’m like everyone else: I need a sense of normal right now. I’ll try to do better, Chloe. I will do better.”

“All right. Call me if you change your mind. No shame in taking a little time off. If there’s one thing we should be learning from this experience, it’s that we need to take care of our families. And ourselves.” 

“Chloe, how’s your family?” In all the years he’d worked with her, he’d never asked that question. He could kick himself for that. He could, come to think of it, kick himself for a lot of things.

“My father’s got a low-grade fever.”

“Oh, Chloe.” He opened his arms, offering a hug, but she shook her head and stepped back. 

“We can’t. Not any more. I appreciate your affectionate nature, but you just can’t be cuddly Vince Noir right now.”


	25. MARCH 10, 2020

Sometimes, even now, at nearly-fifty-years-old, Vince made decisions spontaneously, without much consideration. Often his instincts were right, and this encouraged him to trust his gut, probably more than he should. When it came to taking chances on his show, he considered himself the Talent, and therefore allowed to experiment a little; his editors and Chloe could fix his mistakes (or keep them, if they resulted in humor). So this afternoon, instead of recording his monologue, he looked directly into the active camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you saw last night’s show, you may have noticed I was a bit off-kilter. I’m going to do better tonight. But I wanted to explain why.” He ran his hand through his hair—the hairdresser would chew him out for that later—buying a moment to select words. 

“When I was seven years old, my foster father brought me to London. I’d spent the first part of my life on the outskirts of Johannesburg, so everything here was strange and wonderful to me, and I didn’t always know what to do. I started school behind the other kids my age. I had trouble reading—dyslexia—and I was kind of small and scrawny, so from day one I was a target. But on day one, as a group of chavs were teaching me what-for, I was rescued by another boy, one who was bigger and smarter than me. We both got bloody noses that day, and I can’t say we won the fight, but from the minute Howard threw his first punch in my defense, I had a friend for life. We always had each other’s back, no matter what, though we didn’t have much in common and sometimes we argued like lions and jaguars. All through school and into college and our first job and our second job and our third—Howard was there for me, and me for him. We fell out for a while, but our friendship went on without us; we found that out when we reconnected at Christmas. Our worlds had changed, but nothing important between us had changed. He’s been my best friend, and me his, all our lives, practically, even when we didn’t realize it. 

“Howard came to London a week ago. The day after he arrived, he had a meeting, and without knowing it, at that meeting he shook hands with someone who’d been exposed to the coronavirus. Just a handshake and being in the same room with a guy was enough to put him in danger too. Now Howard’s been exposed and he’s in quarantine. He can’t go out, can’t see anyone, except from the balcony window. For fourteen days, he’s in quarantine, alone, scared and sick. He can’t even see his family or his best friend. We talk on the phone, but what he really needs right now is a hug, and we can’t give it to him. It’s what I need right now too, a hug from Howard. But it can’t happen. Howard’s mum, his sisters and nieces and nephews, and his best friend are going nuts with worry for him, and he’s scared, but we can’t even hold his hand. 

“So I’m not funny right now. I’m not charming. I’m scared. I imagine a lot of you are too. If you’re not, thank the powers above that you aren’t, but while you’re lying on your bed or your couch, with your family and friends safe and comfortable, give a thought for those who aren’t. People who are sleeping on the streets tonight and can’t protect themselves from the virus or hunger or the weather. People in nursing homes who can’t have visits. Think about them and my producer’s dad, who’s recovering, and my friend Howard.

“Starting tonight, we’re moving the NHS update to the top of the show. And starting tonight, I’m donating half my salary for the rest of the year to a homeless shelter that I drive past on my way to work, that I’m ashamed to say I didn’t pay much attention to until recently. It’s called Angel Unaware, and we’ll be linking our website to theirs, so you can donate to them too. Or choose a nonprofit that’s on your way to work. They all need help now. 

“Howard, I’m thinking about you.” He pounded his fist against his heart. “Our first guest tonight is the Assistant Chief of Immunology at the National Health Service—”

—--

As he expected, his producer rushed forward as soon as the taping paused. “Hi, Chloe.”

“We’re leaving it in.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. It was the realest you’ve ever been. And we’ll bump the NHS up to the top and link up that website, and tomorrow, after the overnights are in and our ratings get the bump I expect they will, I’m calling the Director of Marketing to propose that BBC set up a matching funds thing, to match whatever contributions your audience makes through the link. If the higher-ups approve, Coop will start suggesting it to the guests: they can pick a charity, we’ll link to it and match contributions.”

“For how long? The rest of the year?”

“Don’t get greedy, Vince. There’ll be a cap, I’m sure. And Vince, don’t pull a fast one like that again. Tell me first. Look, you’re not the only one who’s worried right now.” Her voice dropped. “And tell Howard good luck.”

—--

“Howard, there’s something I did. . . “

—--  
“I saw it.”

Vince knew Howard didn’t mean the entire show. He’d phoned at the beginning of Xylophone Psychadelic’s set. Not that Howard was missing much. “Are you mad?”

“A little bit. I’m a private man, Vince. You know how much I value my privacy, and you named me on national television. Exposed my family too.”

“I didn’t say your last name.”

“No, but some of your more rabid fans can find it out. You don’t know how they are, on social media. Probably someone at the airport photographed us together.”

“Howard, you don’t think I used you for ratings, do you?” Vince gulped. He should’ve asked first, he should’ve asked first, he’d never trust his gut again.

The answer came immediately. “No! Of course not. But still, I am a little embarrassed. They show your show in the States, you know. My acquaintances in LA know I came here. If they put two and two together, it could mean retraction of some of my job offers. Nobody's going to want to hire a virus carrier.”

“Well, how likely is it that Tim Burton or Tarantino would put two and two together? Wait a minute.” Vince twisted his free hand in his bedsheet. “No. I shouldn’t try to weasel out. I went wrong; I should have asked you before I mentioned you. I’m sorry, Howard.”

“Thank you. So. Best friend for life, huh?” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t mention to anyone that we’re more than that. Unless you want me to.”

“I’m a private man.”

“Are we still ‘more than that’?”

“More than that, Vince. And someday I’ll let you know when I’m ready to announce that to the nation.”


	26. MARCH 11, 2020

**"UK Shields Its Economy From the Virus, but Not Yet Its People"**

**_\--The New York Times_ **

“Vince? How were your ratings last night?”

“Good, not great, but good. Howard, how are you?”

“Good, not great, but so far, good. No symptoms other than minor aches.”

“Which could be due to old age.”

“Vince, you’re only two years younger than I am.”

“Comedy keeps you young, Howard. Even Shakespeare understood that.”

“Well, the next time I meet Shakespeare, I’ll bear that in mind. As for your ratings—hold on, your show’s starting. Are you going to mention me in the monologue?”

“Indirectly. I went back to telling jokes. Britain needs to laugh right now. Here it comes.” Vince waved the phone at the television screen, as if Howard could see what he was doing. His TV self was standing before the red stage curtains, hands in pockets, grinning his shy-but-outgoing grin. And then one of his hands left its pocket, formed a fist and pounded that fist against his heart. “This is me, sending you my love. But only you and me will know what it means.” 

The show—a fitness guru, a model talking about how the coronavirus was affecting the fashion industry, and the lead singer from a one-hit wonder pop group that had broken up years ago—limped on. Vince could only credit last night’s ratings to the shelter-in-place recommendation that left most of Britain parked in front of their TVs: he certainly wasn’t offering them much in entertainment right now. As his TV self bade good night to the audience, he concluded with a heart pound and a “Get well, Howard.” 

“If you don’t mind,” said the TV-watching Vince, “I’m going to end the show like that until you’re free.”

“It’s okay. I kind of like it, in fact. It’s cheerful.” Howard sighed. “Besides, I've got bigger concerns. Film and TV production is shut down now, worldwide. Other than writing that treatment for Burton, I’m out of work for the rest of the year, maybe longer.”


	27. MARCH 12, 2020

“Vince? I know you’re probably doing your make up right now, so I’ll only take a minute, but I thought you should hear this. You might be getting a call from your condo manager. Mr. Flanagan was just here banging on the door, and when I told him I couldn’t let him in, he yelled his complaint through the door.”

“What’s this about? Are you okay?”

“Here. Hear this.” The scrape of the balcony doors opening was followed by a faint and distant song: “We love you, Howard, oh yes we do. . . “ Then multiple female voices shouting, “Get well, Howard!”

“What’s going on?” Vince puzzled.

“It seems,” mused Howard, “your fan club has taken on a new cause: cheering me up.”

“Hmm. I think I need to learn how to tweet.”


	28. MARCH 13, 2020

**"Coronavirus: 13-Year-Old Boy dies, Says London Hospital Trust"**

****

****

\--BBC News 

**"UK to Ban Mass Gatherings in Coronavirus U-Turn"**

**\-- _The Guardian_ **

**  
**

7 AM

From the curtainless balcony doors of his temporary home, Vince watched the sunrise. Movement in the street caught his attention, people going to work or school or shops, though fewer, he thought, than yesterday. And more of them were wearing masks.

Despite Bryan’s patient attempts to instruct his sons in etiquette (extra-important when one was the ward of a man known for his savior faire and cameras and invitations were were so often in one’s face), Vince still encountered situations for which he had no frame of reference. This was one of them. He’d been informed long long ago that it was improper to peer through the exposed window of a home, particularly when it was occupied, but what if that home was one’s own? And what if its current occupant was ill and needing to be watched over? 

Right now, the drapes that normally covered the tall french doors of Vince’s apartment were wide open and a shirtless Howard, his chin dotted with shave cream, was wandering about the living room. Vince wasn’t sure at first what he was doing—something over by the entertainment center—but when Howard started bopping his head and wriggling, Vince had a pretty good idea. He dialed his phone. “Hey, what’d you put on the stereo?”

“Herbie Hancock.” Howard paused in his dancing to take a bow.

"Do you feel okay?"

“Good enough to take a stroll on Hampstead Heath. If I were so allowed.” 

“Took your temperature yet?”

“First thing. It’s normal. I meant it about the stroll.”

Vince chuckled. “You’re looking good, Buffalo Man. But don’t you think, considering the chill and the open drapes that neighbors can peek through, you should put on a shirt?”

“Soon as I finish shaving.” Howard walked over to the french doors, poked his head out and poked his tongue out in the direction of the flat directly across. When he closed the doors he drew the drapes as well. “Who’s on your show tonight?”

“Elton John and David Furnish.”

“Oh. New album? New movie? I thought all new productions were on hold.”

Vince hesitated. Going down this road could give Howard ideas that weren't safe to bring up. “To celebrate a six-year anniversary. They’re in the country just for that. And they made themselves available to us—other celebrities are playing hard-to-get.”

“Six years. Hmmm, what happened. . . no, your show’s been on the air longer than that. When Brian met Bryan? Your first performance with Jedward?”

“The Marriage Act 2013. Introduced in Parliament in January, granted the Queen’s assent in July, went into effect 13 March 2014.”

“Marriage Act?”

He should have stretched the truth. He could have said John and Furnish were celebrating their wedding anniversary. Or he could change the subject altogether. As he considered those options, any one of which would have been for Howard’s benefit, Howard read the doubt in the silence. “Vince? If you won’t tell me I’ll Google it.”

Vince caved in. “Perhaps you wouldn’t have heard, since you were out of the country then: March 13, 2014.” He’d memorized the first paragraph of the Act, in preparation for the interview. “’To make provision for the marriage of same sex couples in England and Wales—”

“Oh.” The word blurted from Howard. They both paused to mull it over. It was the perfect opening—Vince dreaded Howard’s next words—was a horrible, hurtful argument just one sentence away? What a bastard he would be if he had to break Howard’s heart while the man was sick. Never mind that little gremlin voice in Vince’s head that was right now panting in excited anticipation: Let him propose! Let me propose!

“Interesting. We got same-sex marriage legalized just about the same time.” 

“We?” Vince was not at all prepared for a whole new problem. 

“The US, I mean. Sorry, I just got used to. . . after two years, you know. It’s just easier over there, when you’re talking about LA or California or the States in general, to say ‘we.’”

“Howard. . . you’re still a British citizen, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. I have a US work permit. It expires annually but I’ve been able to renew it twice.” 

“I never thought to ask: why? I mean, I know you went there originally to work with Tarantino, but why stay?”

He could almost hear a shrug. “That’s where the film work is. The industry in the UK, it’s just a tumbleweed in a ghost town, Little Man. LA, that’s the garden, and the Johnny Appleseeds of Film have scattered seeds all about the land. New York, of course—that’s where it all started. Atlanta, Chicago, Austin, Oklahoma—”

“Howard, are you gonna stay there? Get American citizenship?”

“Not to worry, Little Man. I’m an Englishman through and through. It’s just that, if a film actor wants to work, it’s Vancouver or LA.”

“Stage acting—London is still the center of theater—” If you married him, you wouldn’t have to worry about citizenship. But Howard deserved a real marriage, one with “forever” stamped on the certificate, not “until Vince Noir shows his peacock colors.”

“Theater is all right; there’s a thrill to performing live. But there’s so much more a camera can do. There’s just so much more everything to film.” 

“Oh.” Vince’s heart twisted and turned. This was good, wasn’t it, that Howard intended to continue being a citizen of two countries? Even better that he hadn’t mentioned marriage or taking Vince along. Wasn’t it? “Well, I’m glad you adapted so easily. And that you’re getting jobs. You have a point; there isn’t a whole lot of work available in British film or telly. I hear that all the time from actors.” Vince opened the file that the PAs had prepared for him, notes about John and Furnish. Six years of wedded bliss. Two healthy, happy kids together. Amazing. Some guys have all the luck. 

Would it be bad manners to ask the happy couple how they’d managed to accomplish that?

—-

Elton John and David Furnish had dashed off right after their interview and a quick picture with Vince; they had another engagement, of course, dinner with some of the Marriage Act’s sponsors. That was okay. Though he would’ve liked to take them out for a drink, Vince needed to get home for Howard. He watched them leave the studio—they’d put on medical masks. He bid a hasty goodnight to the crew and dashed into his dressing room to change clothes. 

“Knock knock.” Vince didn’t have to look up; Chloe always started her after-show chats like that, pretending to knock on his open door. Nor did he have to blush, though he was standing there in his pants, a pair of trousers in either hand; she’d seen him half-dressed before. “Look, we have some decisions to make.” 

Uh oh. She usually started with “A few notes.” When the conversation began “we have some decisions” it meant the decisions had been made in a meeting between Chloe and the Director of Content, probably with a legal rep sitting in. Which meant it was a Big decision, which probably meant Vince had screwed up. “Did I cross the no-politics line again? Or was it my makeup?” He’d had to apply his own the last couple of days; the makeup guy wasn’t coming in any more. “I know I went over the top.”

“Neither of the above.” She eased her butt onto his dressing table, which knocked some of his makeup aside. Whenever she perched a haunch on a table, that meant the conversation would take a while. He didn’t have a while. Normally he liked Chloe, felt she had his back, but today, though she knew about Howard (though not quite everything), she intended to take her sweet time. 

He thrust a leg into his trousers. “Chloe, I have to get home. I have a sick friend, remember? Coronavirus.”

She rested her iPad on her knee. “I won’t keep you, Vince. I appreciate what you’re going through. My dad has it too.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t heard, but then, he hadn’t taken lunch with her lately, nor stood around before the show drinking coffee with the staff. He hoped they understood his abnormal anti-social behavior. If they didn’t, screw ‘em. “Sorry. Mild case?”

She shook her head. “ICU. They won’t let us in to see him.”

“Yeah. . . .” He’d heard the news reports. Standard procedure for the hospitals, even if the patient wasn’t expected to recover.

“Anyway.” She tapped a fingernail on the edge of her tablet. She needed a manicure, but of course the shops were closed. If he weren’t in a hurry, he’d offer to fix her hair too. “We’re going to suspend production for a while. We just can’t continue to expose the crew like this.”

“We could get by with a skeleton crew.”

“Really, Vince? Would you want to do that? Bobby just became a grandfather last week. Are you going to ask him to risk that to operate a camera? And Francine, she’s got RA. You expect her to expose herself to coronavirus so that she can run your sound board?” 

“No, of course not.” Reddening, he zipped his trousers. “I can be a right berk sometimes, can’t I? But I was thinking of their salaries. Thirty-four people feed their families from our show.”

“They’ll be paid. I can’t guarantee for how long. This could go through May. Maybe longer. We’ll run ‘best of’s’ until we’re back.” She gnawed her chipped nail. Bad habit of hers; he normally slapped her hand out of her mouth, but nobody was touching anybody any more. “The entire building is likely to be closed. They’ve already stopped production on most of the dramas and sitcoms. They couldn’t keep working if they wanted to. Did you know, Coop hasn’t been able to book any major stars in two weeks now?”

“He mentioned that,” Vince murmured into his buttons. “He said the best he could get us for tomorrow’s show was the greens guy from Downton Abbey.” 

“Most of them are too scared to leave their houses, and if they’re not, they’re having trouble getting transportation. So, reruns it is. Norton’s people are in discussion now; when they come off hiatus next month, they’ll probably do the same.”

He left off buttoning his shirt to perch beside her, scattering more bottles and tubes to the floor. “You’re worried about the ratings, aren’t you?”

“In a way. In one way, not, because more and more people are staying home and they’ll be watching telly. In another way, who’s going to want to see re-runs of a chat show where the stars are plugging _Hunger Games_ and the Breakout Artist of the Year is Fetty Wap?” 

He reached over to encircle her shoulder, but she shot him a warning look and he clasped his hands together to trap them. “Sorry, this virus is tough on us tactiles. And I’m sorry about the ratings. We’ll have to make sure we come out of the gate with a bang. A-listers, and somebody controversial. A juicy scandal.” He grinned a grin he didn’t feel. “I could ask to borrow Elton John’s Donald Duck suit.”

“Go home, Vince.” She slid off the table. “Give Howard my best.”

—  
“A little bit of a sore throat. That’s all. It came on this afternoon.”

Vince’s voice climbed. “You talked to your doctor?”

“Of course,” Howard scoffed. “It could just be allergies, I told him. It’s that time of year. Or a cold. Coming from LA to London, crammed into a plane with three hundred people—he agreed it’s possible. I don’t have a fever or chills or any of the other symptoms.” But his scoff, Vince knew, was faked; when Howard’s voice quavered on the word crammed, that was a clear sign of nervousness. Howard had suggested allergies and a cold to his doctor in the thin hope that the doctor would scoff too.

“Should I bring you over something?” The medicine cabinet in Vince’s new bathroom was empty, but surely a chemist’s shop would be open.

“No, I found throat lozenges in your bathroom. Let’s talk about something else. How was work?”

“Chloe and the BBC execs are thinking of closing down.”

“What?! Oh, yeah. . .hairdresser and makeup artist and costumer—I suppose there’s a lot of close contact on your set.”

“Yeah. The control booth is small too; the tech crew are shoulder to shoulder. And some of them have kids, old folks at home; everybody’s a bit jumpy right now. It’s hard to concentrate on being funny.”

“Have you thought about shooting remotely?” Howard suggested.

“What do you mean? Like, on location?” Vince remembered reading that Jimmy Kimmel had shot his show in Las Vegas one week.

“No, video chat. Skype and Facetime and Zoom and so on.”

“Really?”

Howard huffed. “I’ve been trying to get you to adapt to modern technology for months now, Vincent. You do Twitter and Insta, I know you do; I follow you. How could you not Skype?”

“Gotta draw a line somewhere.”

“Vince!”

“Okay. Kerry runs those things for me. You know me; I’m a face-to-face guy.”

“We could be video chatting right now, instead of talking on the phone and waving out the window.”

“I like waving out the window. It gives Mr. Flanagan something to gossip about. But tell me more about this modern technology.”

“I did, three months ago.”

“Well, I’m ready to listen now.”

“All right.” Big sigh, then Howard put on his teacher voice. Which, Vince knew, he loved to do anyway. “Let’s start with Phil Collins and Live Aid.”

—  
“You call me at eleven o’clock at night, you’d better be in jail or dead.”

“No, no, this is good. This could save the show.”

“Not another one of your—no, Noir, we’re not having a talking gorilla in the band.”

“No, computers. Doing the show by computers. My friend Howard says Jimmy Fallon’s already going there. It’s in _Variety_.” Vince checked his notes for confirmation. “He uses his iPhone to record 10-minute segments at home, then he uploads them to YouTube, and his crew take those bits and integrates them with clips from old shows, and they come up with something new. Everybody gets to work from home, even the production staff.”

“Are the shows any good?” 

Vince understood what Chloe was really asking. “The ratings are good. And that’s the start. Fallon’s doing guest chats over Zoom. Live guest chats, from the celebrity’s home. Can you picture that? See the star is his own home. Is he in his jim jams and slippers? Does he live in a castle? Has he painted the castle walls purple? Did his kids draw all over the Picassos? Everybody’s live from home. Including music acts. Musicians performing together separately from their own homes.”

“Telematic performance.”

“If you know what it is, why aren’t we doing it?”

“Because it’s complicated, it’s risky and you get better interviews when you’re seated beside the guest. Like you said, you’re tactile. You have a physicality—I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like you radiate warmth that just makes people want to be with you. Even stars, who are naturally suspicious of interviews.”

Sunshine, Howard called it. He knew his power and its limitations. Vince had never tried to interview celebrities by phone. That might be the bigger risk: with only a computer screen to connect them, would guests open up to him?

“Anyway, you’re uncomfortable with technology, right? You don’t even have wi-fi.” 

“Don’t even have a computer,” he muttered. He did all his writing on his office laptop.

She shook her head firmly. “That kind of thing is risky. You kick out a cable and we’ve lost Elton John. You think he’s gonna let you Skype him back? You press the wrong key and we’ve got porno instead of Jane Goodall.” 

“It’s pre-recorded and the tape’s sent to staff for editing. The producer sees the final product before it goes to the network for airtime. Safe as mother’s milk and not much different from what we do now.”

“The video quality is poor.”

“Look at the stuff Fallon’s posted on YouTube. Then decide.”

–  
He parked in his reserved space at the Chandler. His feet hurt and he had a too-little-sleep headache, and he nearly forgot that he didn’t live in the Chandler at the moment. He dragged himself into the lobby and punched the elevator button; then he wondered where the doorman was. Posted above the mailboxes was a notice that he squinted at: something about temporary staff layoffs during “these unprecedented times.” The property manager was requesting, timidly, that residents “do their part” by signing the volunteer sheet posted below, to take shifts manning the front doors and vacuuming the hallways (she would provide the vacuum). Packages would have to be picked up from the anteroom to her office, and she would no longer maintain office hours. The rec room, library and swimming pool were off-limits “for the duration.” Vince was too tired to care about any of it. Not that he could benefit from any of it any more.

The elevator doors opened to show one of the residents, carrying his teacup poodle. Vince couldn’t remember the geezer’s name, so he just nodded a weary greeting as he got into the elevator car. The geezer glared at him and barreled out into the lobby. Vince wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but he wasn’t about to ask. The elevator was opening on the second floor when he remembered he was in the wrong building. He thought he might as well go up and chat with Howard through the locked door, but truthfully, he was too tired to be cheerful and the last thing Howard needed right now was a snarly TV host. He went back down to the lobby and to the street. 

He threw his phone and keys on an ornamental table, shrugged off his red coat and let it lie where it fell. He sorted through his mail, cursing under his breath at the bills that had to be paid, tossed them onto his open suitcase so he wouldn’t forget them tomorrow. When he yanked his boots off, he yelped at the blisters that had formed. He ached for his more comfortable shoes, but they were sitting in the shoe tree in his closet at the Chandler. He was out of clean socks and pants; he wondered if he could get away with soaking them in the bathtub. He limped into the kitchen and yanked the door of the mini-fridge, in hope of something decent to eat, but he had nothing that wouldn’t require cooking and he was too tired to fight with the camping stove. In the cupboard he had a can of french-cut string beans; he supposed he could eat those cold. But the hand-operated can opener kept getting caught in the lid was cutting, and bean water sloshed all over his silk shirt. It was the last straw. He threw the can opener across the kitchen. He wanted to throw the can too, but then he’d have all that bean water to wipe up and he didn’t have a mop because he’d forgotten to buy one and he didn’t have a paper towel because Sainsbury's had run out and what the hell kind of grocery lets themselves run out of paper towels???

He went to the balcony and shouted out a profanity. That felt good; he’d shout another, except the neighbors would complain, Mr. Flanagan would complain, Howard, if he was sleeping, would be disturbed and alarmed—he stomped back inside to drop onto his couch. Kadaway padded over to him, looking pissed off. “Don’t judge me, dog. I’ve put up with a lot of shit lately.” Kadaway continued to glare until Vince noticed the leash the dog was dragging around by his mouth. Vince got the message, but he didn’t like it one bit, and he let the dog know by continuing to curse. He hauled his boots and his coat back on, picked up the keys and trailed along behind as the dog galloped toward the staircase. “No, you stupid mutt, we’re taking the elevator.” 

He thought Kadaway looked insulted. Four blocks and two tree stops later, Vince admitted the dog had earned the right to feel insulted, after his cheerful service as an unpaid delivery boy. Two blocks later, Vince defended himself in his own mind: he’d earned the right to be bitchy. At the entrance to Hampstead Heath, just as a kissing couple passed by (he wanted to yell “Two meters! Two meters!” because it wasn’t fair that his lover couldn’t walk the park and kiss), a weird gulping sound escaped his throat. Kad gave up sniffing the grass and looked round in alarm, and then the dam broke and Vince was outright crying. Why had it all been piled on him? He wasn’t the responsible one; Howard was. Why did he have to eat cold beans and sleep on the floor? He wasn’t a mullet-headed kid sleeping in a zookeepers’ hut any more; he was 46 years old. He had bills and a stiff back and blisters on his feet that were probably bleeding. Why—

He heard a bump and a scrabbling. A few yards away, someone was rooting through the trash bin. Probably had accidentally dropped something in; Vince had done that before, keys, phone, bits of paper with addresses on. Probably drunk; Vince had been, on those occasions. Vince wiped his cheeks on his coat sleeve and turned away, but Kad didn’t want to budge. Too tired to argue, Vince gave the leash some slack and waited for the dog to finish with whatever he was sniffing at. He looked out over the darkening heath.

The bin diver looked up at that moment. They caught each other’s eyes. Vince couldn’t tell, beneath all that hair, if the diver was female or male or young or old, but one thing was obvious: the diver was hungry. He/she had retrieved half a wrapped sandwich from the trash.

Vince’s first instinct was to turn away, lest the diver feel embarrassed at being caught. But the diver didn’t seem embarrassed; he/she simply set the rescued sandwich on the edge of the bin and dived back in. Vince tried harder to walk away, but Kad wouldn’t budge. 

Five coats. At the Chandler Vince had five coats in his closet, some vintage, the prizes of extensive shopping expeditions, some gifts from the House of Jacquettie. Five coats, and then there was this one. The night was falling and the late-winter wind whipping up and Vince was shivering in his Paris original. The diver had no coat. 

Kadaway stood up, sniffing the air. When Vince moved forward on his blistered feet in his too-snug Cheaney Chelsea boots, the dog quietly followed. Two meters away from the bin, Vince let the leash drop and slipped off his coat. He held out the coat as far as his arm could reach. The diver blinked at him, open-mouthed, then extended his/her own arm full length. Their fingers brushed as the coat changed owners. 

Vince turned himself and the dog around to go home. “I’m an asshole beach ball,” he muttered as they walked. The dog wagged his tail. Vince texted Howard: _I need my coat please. Green one with fur collar (faux). I’m on my way. PS And can opener please. PPS and trainers socks and pants (top drawer dresser)_

When he and Kad reached their former home, they found a suitcase waiting, along with a note. “Dear Vince, I used gloves and a broom handle to take the clothes out of the closet and drop them in the suitcase, so things will be a bit wrinkled but hopefully not contaminated. Also included some dog toys, jumpers, trousers and issues of _Cheekbone_ —carried those with salad tongs. You don’t know how hard it is to hold a magazine with tongs! Everything I do, I do it for you. Lay the suitcase open to air out and don’t touch anything for three days. Spray them with Clorox All-Purpose before you put them on. Doc says it should be OK. We will be OK. Yours, H.”


	29. MARCH 14, 2020

6 AM

“I have it.”

Vince’s heart beat so hard he could barely hear his own voice. Howard had a tendency toward melodramatics, especially if he thought he was being overlooked; maybe now—? “Have you talked to the doctor?”

“He made the diagnosis.”

“Oh, Howard.” Vince dragged himself off the inflatable mattress. He stood beside the french doors, staring across the dark street and scratching his head furiously. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just that you’re there for me.” 

“I could come over and sit outside the door.”

“No, you can’t. I need you to stay healthy, even if that means staying away from me.”

“What can—” Vince’s question was interrupted by Howard’s coughing. “What can I send you?”

“Nothing. You’ve already made the bathroom here into a mini-chemist’s. And the refrigerator’s well stocked, not that I’ll have an appetite.”

“Kadaway can come over and keep you company.”

More coughing. “No, Vince, to be honest, you’d better keep him there. Even the little bit of care that he needs will be too much for me today. I just want to sleep, if I could just relax enough.”

“A hot toddy. There’s bourbon in—”

“I know, Kadaway’s bathroom. Yeah, that would help my sore throat.”

“How’s your temperature?” 

“100.1.”

Vince had learned. He’d started paying close attention to Dr. Winston’s reports. “That’s not too bad.” But it would probably get worse.

“I need to call Linda; she’s the level-headed one. Then she can call Mum and Laurie.” Vince could hear rustling. “Then I’m gonna make that hot toddy and go to bed.”

“All right. Howard? I love you.”

“Thanks, Little Man.”  
—-

Vince couldn’t go back to sleep. He took Kadaway for a long walk on the heath, then he stopped into the only shop on his block that was open, the chemist’s. He needed to sew. He couldn’t concentrate sufficiently to read, his spirits and his supplies were too low to practice his Yorkshire recipes, it was too early to phone Bryan, and this being Saturday, he didn’t need to go to work. So, he needed to sew. His sewing machine and bolts of cloth were in a closet at the Chandler. The chemist’s had a travel-size sewing kit; that would be better than nothing. He took Kadaway and his new kit back to the Chandler. 

Kadaway flopped onto the inflatable mattress for a nap while Vince pawed through his meager wardrobe, finally settling on the Spuds Mackenzie t-shirt. He mended the hole in the armpit. That didn’t take long enough to settle his nerves, so he paced the floor, chewing on his hair—he needed a trim, but with all the salons closed until who-knows-when, he’d have to make the cut himself. Never mind, in the zoo days he’d cut Howard’s in the dark; he was pretty good at it too. He sat down on the couch with scissors in hand and the t-shirt across his lap. He had to make something. A shortage of PPE, Dr. Winston had reported on last night’s show. Vince couldn’t remember what the abbreviation stood for, but he did remember that included medical masks, and the public had been snapping up too much of the limited supply, causing a shortage for medical staff. The experts were debating whether the public should be required to wear masks while shopping or riding the Tube. On the show, Vince had asked Dr. Winston how the public might help ease the shortage, and Winston had suggested making masks out of unwanted t-shirts. Better safe than sorry, Howard liked to say; Vince decided he would sew masks for himself and Howard.

As he sewed, some of the stress worked itself out of his body. As little as it was, at least, by sewing these masks, he was doing something useful for Howard. By the time he’d used up all the material in the t-shirt, he felt sufficiently relaxed to lie back on the couch. He thought perhaps he could sleep a little now, but when he closed his eyes, wetness slipped from them into his ears. 

—  
Howard phoned at 9am because he promised to, but his sentences were punctuated with coughs. “Can’t talk much; I just need sleep. I’m aching all over, fever and chills, but I took some uhh, you know. . . “

“Tylenol?” Vince guessed.

“No. . . other stuff. My brain’s fuzzy. Sorry.”

“I could come over—”

“No!”

“Are you having trouble breathing?” 

No. All I want to do is sleep. Before you send an ambulance over, the doctor said stay put. Call you this evening, eh? There’s something on tonight, yeah? Candy?”

“Do you mean our show?” Vince gnawed his lip in anxiety: he’d never seen Howard having such trouble concentrating.

“The show. Yeah.”

“Okay, Howard.” Vince made up his mind: he’d call Howard’s doctor too, to verify the stay-home order. “Sleep well. Call if you need anything.”

“Good night.”

No, the doctor insisted, the symptoms might seem troubling, but Howard would fare much better isolated in the peace and quiet of home; if Vince brought him to the hospital, he himself would become infected, and Howard would only be sent directly back home before he could spread the virus among the already weakened patients. And by no means should Vince go over to the flat to tend to Howard. If the fever worsened or other symptoms developed, call again. Vince cursed as he hung up, then he sat thinking and chewing on a lock of his overgrown hair.  


He couldn't think for long: he had responsibilities. He rang up his lawyer to ask him to write a letter to the Chandler manager and homeowners' board, to report Howard's condition. Then he started phoning the people who needed to hear this news from him. 

–--  


True to his word, Howard phoned at 5 minutes to 7. He started, as always, with his health report: he’d slept six hours interrupted, but woke up sweating, but when he got out of bed he shivered. He borrowed Vince’s oversized Diesel jumper: “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first, but I was so cold and I couldn’t find my robe. All my clothes are dirty already, but laundry will have to wait.”

“No it won’t,” Vince blurted. “Stick it out in the hall and I’ll come for it.” Surely there’d be a laundromat open somewhere? Kerry could take—no, Kerry was at home and would stay there. Vince could call around. Could 411 answer a question like that? How did the street people wash their clothes if the laundromats were shut down? 

“That’s what my mother said. I called to wish her happy Mother’s Day and she said she’d come down to keep house. I’m a lucky man, Vince, to have people who want to take care of me. And I’ll tell you what I told her: no, thank you.” Howard tried to chuckle but coughed instead.

“Are you breathing all right, Howard? Should I call your doctor?”

“I can breathe, and I talked to the doctor this morning. Still muddle-headed. Maybe a cup of the Patented Ferry Cure will put me to rights.”

“Did you eat something?”

“Some of the, you know, what you bought. Anyway, there’s—oh, the show is on. I keep wanting to fall asleep.” Howard fell to silence as the theme music for _The Masked Singer_ poured through the phones. 

Vince sat down at the BBC laptop. Following the instructions Kerry had prepared, he logged into his new ITV account. The heavy keys made his fingers feel thick and awkward; he longed for the delicate touch of a paintbrush or the reassuring touch of a crayon, but at least working the Internet gave him an idea and he made a note to google laundromats later on. Could the virus be transmitted through clothing? 

“I did some research the other day, when I got bored. Social media’s all aflutter about this show. Every boy and his dog has a guess. I’m pretty sure the chicken is uhm, whatsis—wait while I get my notes. . . Chase Emery Davis. The others I don’t have clue: who is Nail Horan, anyway?”

“Niall. One Direction.”

“I don’t need directions. I’ve made the Ferry Cure before.”

“No, One Direction is a boy—”

“It’s the—” Howard broke off for another coughing fit. “Just a minute; kettle’s whistling.” 

The first celebrity had finished his/her set before Howard returned to the phone and presumably, the bed. “Sorry, had to prepare my Ferry Cure. Oh, I missed the Shark. Never mind; she’s no good.” Howard stopped to blow on his hot tea, which resulted in another coughing fit. “Really, before you panic, I’m okay, Vince. Or will be. I’ll go to bed right after the show.”

“We could cut this short so you could get to bed now.”

“No, I don’t, it’s helping; it makes me focus. And feel less lonely.”

“I’m sorry, Howard. I could send Kadaway over; at least you’d have him.”

“No, if I fall asleep I can’t take care of him. Here’s the Martian. I’d vote him out too.”

“Only the studio audience votes.”

“I see that. How? Aren’t the ITV studios closed, like the BBC?” 

Vince answered absently. “Pre-recorded. Filmed last summer.”

“All of the contestants are celebrities, yeah? Most likely B list. So, washed up or wannabe singers, actors, dancers.”

“C list, I’d say. Any public figure, really: athletes, politicians, news readers, gamers.” 

“It’s that crazy candy dude—sorry, I mean ‘sweets.’ Americans say ‘candy.’ That crazy candy-head dude that I’m wondering about. Fans are guessing everybody from Chris Colfer—whoever he is—to that footballer, uhm, the one who married the pop fashionista? I’m sure it’s not anyone that’s been guessed though. It’s someone I’ve seen before. Those dance moves are quirky unique. The voice—it sounds like the night.”

“The what?”

“The night. His voice makes me think of the nighttime, but with bright city lights overhead and multi-colored paper lanterns trailing along the pathway through a Coventry flower garden. Butterflies and fireflies on the daisies.” 

“That’s poetical, Howard. It doesn’t give me a clue as who the Flying Saucer is, but it’s lovely to say, just the same. Hey, there’s the Chipmunk.”

“She can’t sing. So when the celebrity comes out, there’s a pre-recorded insert that features some clues. The clues might be literal or metaphorical or even puns. They might refer to the celebrity’s past or present. From what I’ve read, sometimes the clues are so obscure they’re useless. Now, for the Candy Man, here’s what the fans got from last week’s clue package.” (Vince was impressed: Howard was picking up on the show’s lingo already.) “Candy Man first appeared wearing a whatchamacallit—graduation hat. So maybe he’s a college graduate? Or a former professor? So some people guessed Sting. The gown had a red and white sash. Unfortunately there are a lot of schools with red and white as official colors, so no help there. Candy Man emerged from a red door. There was a movie called—whasis— Behind the Red Door; it’s about AIDS, so maybe Candy Man raises money for AIDS, like Elton John does? Maybe he’s a member of Elton John’s band? Someone guessed Davey Johnstone, but someone else said Johnstone is a Scot and Candy Man sounds chavvy.”

“Or—there’s a perfume called Red Door; maybe the Flying Saucer shills for Elizabeth Arden. Or maybe he’s Arden’s son.”

“Oooh,” Howard said. “I hadn’t—and then there were two beach balls with blond wigs on them. The Beach Boys, maybe?”

“Or maybe Flying Saucer played on the UK Beach Ball team at the summer Olympics.”

Howard sounded perplexed. “Vince, I don’t think there is an Olympic beach ball event.”

“I could be wrong. That’s the problem with trying to guess the masked singers, Howard. The clues could mean anything. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy obsessing over them. And you’ll miss the show—look, Flying Saucer’s on now. But I’m impressed: a week ago you wouldn’t have known who Elton John is.” They fell silent as the Flying Saucer’s clue video was shown: the Flying Saucer was shown walking through a dense forest PVC pipes, tall as trees, and black; under his yellow boots was wooden floor. 

“Plumber pipes.” Howard seized on a clue. “So he was a plumber once.” As the Flying Saucer walked hesitantly into the forest, he seemed to get confused, cocking his head and turning about. Howard fired off his interpretations: “Lost. Lost in a mechanized world.” Overhead, a ceiling rigged with electrical gear and stage lights. “A stage actor.” Off-stage there was a crack of thunder; from the overhead rigging, spotlights and fill lights clicked on and a red plastic lightning bolt swept across the stage.

“Or a gaffer,” Vince giggled.

Then a shower of LP records poured down from above, some falling safely, some cracking as they hit the forest of pipes or the floor. “Records—a musician. Breaking records—he broke sales records.”

“Or ‘broke into music.’ Or maybe his music was so awful people smashed his records.”

Now Howard was chuckling, but struggling to maintain concentration. The Flying Saucer watched as the records rained down, then when they suddenly stopped falling, he stepped over them and proceeded on his way, seeking a path through the PVC forest. “The hits stopped coming. He broke a lot of records in the music industry but it came to an end quickly.” 

“It always does,” Vince sighed dramatically. “Unless you’re Mick and Keith.”

“Or Broken Music. It is Sting.”

“He’s a Geordie. Hey, how do you know who Sting is?”

“Last Exit. I saw them at Dingwalls. They were well regarded by the London Society of Jazzmen. Shh, he’s singing now.”

“At least we know for sure it’s a man—or do we?” Vince teased, then hushed as the MC made the introductions: “Now singing ‘An Architect’s Dream’ by Kate Bush is the Flying Saucer.” Before the song had ended, a coughing fit overtook Howard. The masked celebrity had taken his bow and walked off before Howard had regained composure. “Damn it, sorry, Vince. I ruined the song for you.” 

“Never mind. What matters is you. Do you have enough cough syrup?”

“I’ve got cough syrup pouring out my ears,” Howard growled, and the growl started him coughing again. Through the phone Vince could hear foot thuds, followed by a click. “I’m making another Ferry Cure.” 

Vince tried to cheer him up with a distracting anecdote, but Howard gave back only a few halfhearted “uh huh’s” and “yeah’s.” Vince could hear the sounds of tea being made and he wanted to kick himself for not being there to do this work; Howard shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. Finally there were more footfalls, a creak of bedsprings and a tired sigh. 

“Vince, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get some more sleep. I can’t make it through the rest of our show.”

“No problem. You’ll call me if you need something, yeah? Or just to talk. Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night. I usually don’t get to bed before midnight.”

“I remember.” A yawn overtook whatever else Howard might’ve said. “Good night, Little Man. Love you.”

“Good night, Howard.”

Though it was pointless, Vince sat up most of the night with his chair parked at the french doors, waiting in case Howard’s bedroom light turned on again.


	30. MARCH 15, 2020

**"Every Briton over the age of 70 will be told 'within the coming weeks' to stay at home for an extended period to protect themselves from coronavirus."**

**\--BBC News**

“Tell me a story.” Howard’s voice was ragged and muffled; Vince imagined him deep beneath the duvet and sheets, his cheek pressed into a pillow. “Like you used to. Until I fall asleep.”

Vince usually asked which story Howard would prefer, but he understood that today, the subject—and the level of fantasy or realism involved—didn’t matter. It was his voice Howard needed, to feel soothed, to feel less lonely. And so he started talking.

–--  
In the evening Howard called back, first to assure Vince he felt better after a sleep interrupted only a few times by coughing, then to apologize for having fallen asleep in mid-story. “It was the llama story, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Vince didn’t want to stir up Howard’s guilt by informing him it had also been the Ape of Death story and the Killeroo story and the Mutants story. He hadn’t been sure just when Howard had fallen asleep, so he’d told all the zoo stories. 

“Well funny,” Howard murmured. “You should write them down sometime. Like the Charlie books.”

“We both should. They’re your stories too.”

“Good night, Vince. I love you.”

“Sleep well, Howard. I love you too.”


	31. MARCH 16, 2020

**"Coronavirus: PM Says Everyone Should Avoid Office, Pubs and Travelling"**

**\--BBC News**

He drove past the homeless shelter on his way to work again. It was only 8 AM, but a line had already formed at the doors. Only three of those in the queue were wearing masks. 

They recorded _Noir at Night_ from an empty studio. It was awkward, not having an audience to play off of; Vince had to fake his chuckles. Fortunately, his guests—the runner-up for the Miss England Pageant and Ed Sheeran’s dentist—said little to inspire a laugh. Dr. Winston of the NHS conveyed the grim news that the virus had now infected 1500 people and killed 55. Vince wondered, as he and the show writers did every day, whether he should stop telling jokes; it just didn’t seem appropriate.

During a break in the filming, he got an idea and made a quick phone call. His idea verified, Vince ended the show not with his usual promotion of tomorrow’s show, but with a suggestion. “If you’ve been out and about lately, you’ve probably noticed, like I have, that more and more people are wearing protective masks. Dr. Winston’s told us that’s probably a good idea, but there’s a massive shortage. On tomorrow’s show he’s going to teach us how to make our own masks, so gather your old t-shirts and pillow cases and towels. And while you’re making your own masks, how about making extras for people who need them? If sewing is your thing, why not make some masks to take to the nearest homeless shelter? Call ‘em first to see what they need. That’s what I’ll be doing this week: making masks for Angel Unaware. My goal is 112 masks, one for each resident, by Monday. Can I make it? Tune in Monday to find out.”

It was a bold statement, made hastily, by a man who no longer had access to his sewing machine in a city whose fabric shops were closed. But if, between his friends and his friends’ friends, he’d been able to borrow household goods enough to furnish his apartment, surely he could do the same for sewing gear. After all, who among his fashion-forward contacts wouldn’t have unwanted shirts in their closets? And he knew just the person who could loan him a sewing machine: the woman who’d taught him to sew in the first place. Feeling rather self-satisfied, he approached—as close as social distancing would allow—each of his staff. “Do you have any t-shirts you don’t want any more? Come on, Coop, I know you’ve got a Derby County jersey shoved into the back of your closet.” 

Chloe caught him as he put the bite on the sound engineer. “Before you ask, yes, I have a set of napkins that my in-laws gave us for Christmas. Horrid lime green napkins. I’ll bring them in tomorrow. Now.” She set her hands on her hips. “I saw Fallon.” 

“And? Ratings increase of 34 percent in the key demo, right?” 

“And Bobby and I met with Steve Goodwin and some guys in Legal and Broadcasting Ops. Bobby’s already talking to a couple of vloggers to get some tips and Ops is looking into the software and equipment we’d need. The unions are thrilled about the possibility of keeping some of the crew on the job.”

“So it’s a go?”

“Vince, how would you feel about having cameras and lights in your living room? More importantly, how quickly can you recover from your technophobia?”


	32. MARCH 17, 2020

**"Covid-19: UK Starts Social Distancing after New Model Points to 260 000 potential deaths" \-- _BMJ_ **

**"U.K. Broadcasters ITV and BBC Ban Audiences as Coronavirus Worsens" \-- _Variety_ **

“What’s it like out there, in the world?” Howard’s voice was raw. It seemed every time he took a breath, he had to fight off a cough.

“ _Noir at Night_ is going to ‘Best of’s’ for the rest of the week, so I’ve got Wednesday and Thursday free. The BBC is shutting the studios down. I could pick up your laundry—”

“No.”

“Dr. Winston, the NHS Immunology Chief, says that the virus only lives on clothes a couple of hours. I could take anything you wore before today—”

“Not necessary, Vince. I’m just wearing my robe. Clothes feel scratchy and hot. When I feel better I’ll do a load in your washing machine.”

“Well, then, I could come and sit in the hallway, read to you or tell you stories. So you feel less alone.”

“No. I’m not going to risk spreading this to anyone else, especially you. Stay where you are; talk to me about anything. I can close my eyes and pretend you’re here. What were you saying about the show?”

“Starting Monday—Howard, this is all thanks to you—we’re moving online. Everybody gets paid, and some of them will be working from home. The staff’s excited.”

“You too?”

“Me too. Nervous, but I’ll have Bobby talking me through it, in an earpiece—he’ll be working from his house. And when the crew comes to set up the equipment, they’ll show me how it all works.” He struggled to inject delight into his voice.

“You’re gonna do fine, Little Man. Deep down, you’re not the Luddite you pretend to be; you just lack confidence, after the way the teachers treated us in school. You’re brighter than you think you are.”

“Thanks, Howard.”

“What about the rest of the world?” 

“The government’s ordered social distancing to start. Two meters apart for people who don’t live in the same household.”

“Too late. We’ve already beat them to it.”

“The city’s shutting down. The museums and galleries and libraries all closed today. The country’s shut itself off from the world. A travel ban. Air travel’s almost nonexistent. UK citizens visiting or working overseas are supposed to come back.”

“Well, I’m already here,” Howard said dryly. 

“The US has a travel ban too, including UK citizens.”

“Oh. Never mind, I’m not fit to travel anyway.” Howard tried to sound cavalier.

“It’s temporary, of course. Maybe a month.”

“Just the beginning,” Howard said. “More shut-downs to come, I’m sure.”

“It kinda feels like war. Like a third world war.”

“I don’t want to think about it right now. Distract me. Talk about something else.”

“What’s it like there?” Phone pressed to his ear, Vince stretched out on his couch, using the arm rest as a pillow but pretending it was Howard’s bony knees. He closed his eyes, waiting for Howard’s voice to lull him into a half-sleep. 

“Where? Over here? Your flat?”

“No, I know what it’s like over there. Although, on second thought, that would make an interesting topic: my flat through your eyes.” Vince’s brain floated to the top of the sleeping pool he was planning to submerge himself into. 

“Tell me about LA, as you saw it at first, and then now.”

“LA.” A pause—for collection of poetic thoughts, Vince assumed, but then the pause was broken by coughing.

Vince bolted upright. “All right, Howard? Cup of the Cure?” His feet wanted to carry him to the kitchen so he could prepare a cup of tea for Howard, tipping a spoonful of Irish whiskey into it and topping it with a cloud of cream—Granddad Ferry’s Patented Cure for the Common Cough, Bryan used to joke, though the cream was Pa Ferry’s addition. When child-Vince caught a cold, Bryan used to prepare that concoction, along with cinnamon toast sliced on the diagonal (his own contribution; “now when you grow up, you must add something to the Cure formula too. It’s a Ferry family tradition”). Grown-Vince had no children of his own to tend to, to carry on the tradition, but he’d had Howard, who had a seasonal allergies that drove him to bed, giving Vince the opportunity. After careful thought, he’d made his contribution to the formula, a hand-painted smiley face on the underside of the tea cup. “You have to drink all your tea to see the surprise,” he would coo to his patient, who patiently resisted the temptation to bellow, “For gossakes I’m a grown man, Vince, don’t talk to me like I’m five.” 

“How’s Kadaway going to carry a cup across the street without sloshing it all over himself and burning his fur?” Howard barked, and Vince thought, good. This is good; give Howard something to complain about so he forgets about his misery. Something to show off how smart he is, much more practical than me. In actuality, there was no problem: a Thermos could fit into Kadaway’s saddle bags. A Thermos, a tin of biscuits and a quick-drawn get well card. 

But Howard needed to feel smart right now when he felt helpless, so Vince conceded the point. “You’re right, Howard. How do you feel?”

“Did you know coughing can make your ankles ache? Most people don’t know that. I should write a book or a blog tracking my symptoms.”

“You should. People could learn from it. Doctors.” Vince settled back onto the couch.

“Now, you wanted to know about LA. Or was that America in general? I’ve traveled it extensively, you know.”

“Man of Adventure. That could be another blog.”

A second coughing fit. Vince didn’t comment on it. Perhaps drawing Howard’s attention from it would make it go away, like the hiccups.

“Wait a minute; that tea sounds like a good idea. Then you’ll have your story.” Vince could hear blankets being tossed aside, the bed creaking, footfalls. He wanted, again, to prepare that Thermos and the card, but this was good, too, for Howard to get up, get his blood pumping, his muscles moving, his lungs expanding. 

“The whiskey’s in the liquor cabinet—”

“Of course it is.”

“Which is in Kadaway’s bathroom.”

A humph. “Course it is. Because the dog enjoys a nip before his bubble bath.”

“Not really a bathroom,” Vince tried to justify his interior decorating. “I mean, it is, but it’s where he paints. I tried letting him use my studio, but then I had to mop up the paw prints.”

A chuckle, then a brief cough. “Vince, you delight me. Tell me, may the public expect a Kadaway Noir gallery showing soon?”

“It started as an experiment. I had a guest on, a zookeeper who’d taught an elephant to paint. Jumbo did a landscape on air and next day, Britney Spears bought it for ten grand. I thought, if a big clumsy beast can paint a ten-grand landscape—”

“What could a tidy little dog do,” Howard finished the sentence. 

“Well, he is very attentive to detail.”

Vince could hear cupboards opening and silverware clattering. “Where do you keep the bread?”

“Cupboard next to the refrigerator.” 

“And? The painting?”

“Oh, well, he’s very tidy, of course, but his work is derivative of Madsteez. No style of his own.”

A full-blown laugh and the clatter of cups. “Spice rack? Or, wait, perhaps you keep your cinnamon in the shoe rack.”

“On the wall to the left of the cooker.” 

Footfalls and clinking, then a deep sigh that converts to a cough. “This isn’t right.”

“Irish whiskey, not the scotch—”

“No, I mean, there’s no smiley on the cup.”

Vince’s heart sank. He was letting four generations of Ferrys down, not to mention his best friend. “I could whip one up for you right quick—”

“No, this will suffice. I really need the tea now.” 

Vince heard the kettle whistle: what a homey sound. “Just a moment.” But he wouldn’t be defeated by distance and virus: he popped to his feet, dashed into the kitchen. “Give me a second. Meantime, tell me about LA. What were your first impressions?”

“I feel like I’m being interviewed.”

“You could be, once you’ve recovered.” He flipped through the canvases leaning against the stove.

“No, sir. You’d ask me something embarrassing. And you’d know if I lied and you’d correct me on air.”

Vince giggled. “Yeah, I would.” He couldn’t find an unused canvas—all the shops being closed, he’d have to ask Kerry to order some online—so he set a half-painting on his easel and flipped it over onto its face. He had enough left in the tube of Cadmium Lemon. “Enjoying your tea? Did you get the proportions right?”

“Too much cream.”

“Add a half-spoon of whiskey.”

A bump and a yelp. “I stubbed my toe on a chair.”

“Why weren’t you wearing your slippers?”

A growl. “Because they’re in a closet in LA, you muppet!”

“Oh. Then why weren’t you wearing my slippers?”

A groan. “I’m going to need more whiskey.”

Whatever else might have been said about Vince’s art—and there was plenty, most of it criticism and most of it focused on his celebrity with barely a mention of the paintings—it was confident. Vince always approached a canvas with absolute clarity of vision and certainty that he could pull off his intentions. Of course, those intentions might change in execution; he worked from inspiration, not craft, “painting from the gut,” Bryan called it. Today, of all days, called for haste and guts (or, Vince preferred to think, heart). “You were starting to tell me about LA. Your first impression?”

Vince could hear Howard thinking and drinking. Finally: “Rock.” 

Vince’s brush held in mid-air. “I didn’t know you liked rock. You always used to complain—”

“Not rock music—though that’s part of it; everywhere you go, even the elevators, rock music. But I meant rock rock. Clastic sedimentary rock. Even the most famous landmark—and there are many, many famous landmarks—is embedded in rock. The iconic Hollywood sign is situated on Mount Lee. . . .”

Vince let him ramble, though he sounded like a tour-bus guide who would, at any moment, point out Doris Day’s house on the left. Eventually, underneath the encyclopedia pages that comprised the topsoil of Howard’s brain, and with a little nudging, Howard would get around to what Vince was really asking about, the people. And beneath that, in the regolith (a term Vince knew thanks to a long-winded and pointless interview with the lead singer of Bad Religion—who would’ve guessed a punk would be so obsessed with geology?), if Vince kept digging, he would uncover the answers to the question he was really really asking: did Howard care about any of those people? 

Vince wasn’t sure what he hoped the answer would be.

“Uh huh, uh huh. . . and the climate? Is true ‘it never rains in California’?. . . uh huh. . . sure. . . . And the entertainment industry? Does everyone in LA work, or want to work, in entertainment?. . . .I see. . .And the people, are they really all tall and tanned and blond?. . . Do you find them materialistic and shallow? . .Is there anyone there you particularly admire?. . . Do you socialize much? You know, go out dancing or—yeah, I know that’s my thing. What about jazz clubs? How’s the jazz scene there?. . .” Bad question, Vince! Howard would talk for hours now and never get beneath the surface of this conversation. Brush between his teeth, Vince stepped back to examine his work. Almost finished, just needed a little dimple at the corner of the mouth. When Howard interrupted his in-depth comparison of Bluewhale and—Baked Potato?!—to cough, Vince rushed him to the main point. Not wise; it’s never wise to rush Howard when he’s in professor mode, but Vince had to know. “Howard, do you have friends in LA?” 

“Certainly,” came the too-hasty answer. 

“I mean, people who hang out with apart from acting classes and auditions and whatnot. Drinking buddies or shopping buddies or sunbathing on the beach buddies?.”

“I play golf.”

Vince’s brush skittered across the canvas, leaving a yellow streak. He would turn that streak into a cloud. “You play golf?”

“I took lessons. It’s a good business investment. And helps me keep in shape. And yeah. . .” There was a bit of a pause. “It’s part of my social life now. I have golf buddies.”

“The kind of buddies you do other things with?”

“We usually have a light lunch after eighteen holes.”

“But do you go other places with them? Do you have them over to your house?”

“It’s a small house, Vince. I showed you pictures.”

Vince sucked in a breath. “But do you have good buddies? Watching- _Columbo_ -with buddies? Lounging-in-your-slippers-with-tea-and-the-remote buddies?”

“There’s nobody like you, Vince.”

He released the breath. He’d heard what he needed to hear. “One of a kind, ain’t I?” Grabbing the painting, he trotted back to the living room, ran onto the balcony and raised the painting over his head. The phone dropped to the carpet; he let it go. He shouted through the street (never mind the neighbors), “Howard, look out your window!”

Howard opened the french doors, tea cup and phone in hand. He was rumpled but cuddly in his elbow-worn brown corduroy robe and Vince’s slippers (silver with gold tassels and Aladdin toes). Pillow lines creased his face; his shrimp eyes were puffy; his graying hair, shaggy over the ears, begged for a Midnight Barber. But he looked wonderful. “Vince, you’re making a spectacle.”

The french doors in 10B flew open and Flanagan stormed out onto his balcony to glare upwards. “Damn right he is.” 

“That’s all right, Mr. Flanagan, you can eavesdrop,” Vince didn’t lower his voice or his painting. “Look, Howard. For you.” 

Howard leaned over the balcony railing to squint. He nodded and sipped his Ferry tea. “Now it’s right. Thank you, Vince. You’re a good friend.” 

Vince nodded back. He continued to hold up the Cadmium Lemon smiley face until Howard finished the cup of tea and went back inside to bed.


	33. MARCH 18, 2020

**"Coronavirus: UK Schools to Close Indefinitely, Says Boris Johnson"**

**\-- _The Guardian_ **

He made his appeal in person, driving out to Leyton at daybreak. 

“Vince!” Mrs. Moon greeted him at the front door of the little house she shared with her daughter Laurie and her son-in-law, he of the camping stove. Vince swept her up in a bear hug, then remembered and released her immediately and stepped away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” It had been so many years since they’d last spoken, the thirteen-year split from Howard having dissolved the ties he’d had with the Moons. Whatever Howard had said to them, though, when he’d asked for the camping stove must’ve satisfied them, because clearly they’d allowed him back into the fold. 

The warm welcome quickly faded, however, as Mrs. Moon suddenly questioned Vince’s arrival. “Howard? Is he worse?”

“About the same. He checks in with his doctor every day, you know. A mild case, the doctor says; he’s better off isolated at home than in hospital.”

“Hospitals are overflowing now,” Mrs. Moon nodded. “He rang me yesterday, claimed to be getting on all right, but is he putting on a brave face? I’m not there to know. He won’t let me come to him.”

“No, it’s best if you stay right here. You couldn’t go into the apartment anyway. I talk to him every day. I’m able to see him from my balcony.”

“Yes, he told me what you’d done. That was very generous, but no less than we expected, for what you and him are to each other. Will you come in for tea? Laurie and Bruce are still asleep.” She dropped her voice as if concerned the neighbors would overhear: “He’s been made redundant. It happened just yesterday. Her hours were cut.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. If there’s an issue with money, I can help. I’m sure Bryan would want to, as well.” She had worked for Roxy Music’s record company for many years.

She started to pat his arm, but pulled away. “Thank you, Vince. My pension is substantial; EMI was generous. How is Mr. Ferry, by the bye?”

“In excellent health. He’s hunkered down like the rest of us, but his gardening and his painting keep him busy. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

“We had good times,” she smiled fondly. “I still get Christmas cards from Eno. Quite a character, that one. So will you take tea with us?”

“I need to get back to Howard. But I’ll tell you why I came.” 

He quickly explained his sewing project, and before he’d got the question out, she’d offered bolts of cloth and a spare sewing machine. “I trade up every other year, but I haven’t yet gotten round to taking my older machine to the Goodwill. I believe they’re shut down, like everything else. It’s a J3-24—you know I’ve always been partial to Janomes. Come in; I’ll show you to the sewing room. And while you’re here, will you take this shirt I just finished for Howard? I don’t know how long he’d have to wait for it otherwise.” She preceded him into the house. “That’s a brilliant idea about the masks. I think I’ll call some shelters myself. I’ve been bored silly since retirement. There are only so many shirts you can make for your family, you know.”

—--

“Kadaway’s delivery arrived unbroken,” Howard informed Vince in their daily phone call. 

“That’s good.” Vince grinned, though no one could see it. “I was afraid he might stop on the sidewalk for a little nip.” He’d sent the dog over with Mrs. Moon’s shirt, brie, a bottle of Naked Grouse and some carrots. Liquor had come plentiful at Sainsbury’s, but fresh fruit and vegetables and dairy products were growing scarce and pricey. As he was shopping that morning, weighing a melon in each hand, he’d wondered if Kerry and his flatmates were having to cut back on their purchases. It would be a shame for growing boys to have to live off of peanut butter sandwiches and ramen. On his way out, he’d stopped at Customer Service to ask whether they delivered to Kerry’s neighborhood. 

“The Grouse arrived in tact, but I do think he sampled the brie.” 

“For a street mutt, he has refined taste. You should see him around caviar.” They chuckled, Howard’s broken by coughs—shallower this time than in previous days. 

“And thanks for the shirt and the note from Mum. I’m glad she was able to provide the sewing machine.”

“It was great to see her again.” Vince tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could roll out the bolt of cloth on the floor.

“Well, sir, what’s the world news today?”

“Schools are closing, beginning Monday. There’s talk of a lockdown.”

“What, precisely, does that entail?”

He began marking the cloth for cutting. “Nothing official’s been said. Just ‘we won’t rule anything out.’ Could mean closing off the city, shutting down public transport. We’re already being told to ‘avoid social interaction.’ Signs are up everywhere. The telly dramas and sitcoms have stopped filming. Concerts canceled—entire tours. Churches closing their doors.”

“And your show?”

“Bobby’s setting up the equipment in my living room tomorrow. If you squint real hard, you’ll be able to see me through your windows, getting trained. Breaking things. Someone told me once that if you type ‘Google’ into Google, you’ll break the Internet. I think I’ll test that theory tomorrow.”

Howard laughed. “Just don’t ask Siri to explain the meaning of life. She’ll know you’re trying to trip her up and she’ll get rather snippy about it.”

“I’m going to be on _Jimmy Fallon_ Friday. My debut on American television!” 

“Congratulations, Vince!”

“It’ll be a test-run of our system. We’re going to compare notes on the virus situation in the UK and the US. Then he’s going to give me advice for doing a chat show online. He’s been very helpful, Howard. I’ve already talked to him twice, and his staff did a conference call with Chloe and Bobby. It’s kinda comforting, in a way.”

“How so?”

“Not just that he’s got the experience with doing an online show. It’s that they’re—the Americans—are going through this virus thing too.”

“All the world is, Vince.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t been talking one on one with anyone outside Britain since it happened. It’s got me thinking, we’re all going through this together, aren’t we?”

Howard seemed to understand what Vince wasn’t quite saying. “Isolated but not alone. There are some brilliant people in the world. If mankind came dream up phones and telly and the Internet, somebody’s gonna figure this virus out, smart quick.” 

“You know, when this thing first started,” Vince mused, “it seemed to bring out the meanness: spouse abuse, hoarding toilet paper and tinned food, scams, price gouging, disobeying the health orders. But it’s also bringing out the good, people looking after their neighbors, balcony singing, online concerts, ‘thank you’s’ for medical staff. And this: Jimmy Fallon’s helping me, but he’s my competition—E! carries his show here.”

“You know what you should do? Send him a box of local treats, like you did for me.”

“Brilliant idea, Howard; I’ll do that today. I’m going out to see Bryan this afternoon, before they close the city off. He’s self-isolating—voluntarily; he’s not sick or anything. He sent Mrs. Paddington home. Her sister lives in Bath, so she’s going to stay with her, in case of a lockdown. He was supposed to be working in the studio this week, but that’s all canceled. It’s kind of a holiday, he says; he can do his gardening in his bathrobe.”

“The hardest working septuagenarian in Britain. Tell him hello for me.” Bryan was one of the few people whom Howard allowed to hug him. Having grown up with Ferry living next door, Howard considered him more of an uncle than his own biological uncle was. 

Or—the idea flashed into Vince’s imagination—someday, a father-in-law. If only.

He shook off the notion. “So, another story today?”

“Today, I'd like to hear something new. Tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know.”

“Hmm.” Thirteen years they’d spent apart; yes, there were events, relationships, achievements and failures that Howard hadn’t been present to witness. How much Bollo might have passed along to Howard during those years, Vince didn’t know. But now, while Howard was still sick, was not the time to open cans of worms—or snakes, as the case might be. “Well, you know how I feel about my clothes. I never throw anything out. No telling when something old will become vintage.”

“In which case, you’ll want to wear it again.”

“Correct. So I have a storage locker for all that, because my flat doesn’t have enough closet space.”

Howard mock-gasped. “You, Vince? You bought a flat with too few closets?”

“The location was perfect, so I made the sacrifice. And I’ve always been finicky about getting paint on my clothes, and smocks just look so tacky and so mad-scientist-y, so when I got my own place, I started painting in my pants.”

“I hope you close the drapes first. That Flanagan’s right nosy.”

“If he looks, let him look. He’ll enjoy the view.”

“That’s a good one,” Howard laughed. “Someday, will you let me watch you paint?”

Vince snickered. “If I do, I’ll never get any work done.”

“Tell me something else.”

“Did you like my Yorkshire pudding?”

“I did, yes, thank you; I know you went to a lot of trouble to make it specially for me.” 

“Kadaway doesn’t. The first one I made, I gave him a taste and he chucked it up. After that, he’s refused to come into the kitchen while I’m cooking.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing then. It’s delicious. In fact, I think you should make one for Bryan.”

“That would be the ultimate test,” Vince admitted. “When this is over.” He didn’t have to define _this_. “What do you want to do, Howard, when this is over?”

“I have to write that treatment. It’s only to be fifteen or so pages, but getting started is the hard part. Once I get a good idea, the right idea, I’ll take off like Superman’s speeding bullet, sir, no stopping me then. But the right idea—” he sighed. “I stewed over it all the way from LA to LHR, and now my head is too foggy to imagine anything. A remake of _The Headless Horseman_ , Tim suggested, but if I have another idea, he’ll consider it. Comedy-horror is his style, not mine.”

“Why not try just comedy, then? Maybe the horror will be inherent in the characters. I mean, imagine a typical day in the Horseman’s household. How does he shave? Suppose he’s married and his wife won’t let him leave for work until he’s kissed her goodbye.”

“The trials and tribulations of living headless in the modern world. That could be well funny, Little Man. He goes to the driver’s bureau for a license; how do they take his picture? When he gets pulled over for speeding and the cop compares his license to his face—” 

“Or when his baby’s born and the in-laws start to say, ‘Oh, he’s got his mother’s eyes but your—ah, your—”

“Or he goes to the barber shop for a trim—”

“And his wife’s jealous because she thinks he’s watching other women—”

“And he says, ‘How can you tell?’”

“And his best friend is a hat designer who’s always after him to try on his latest creation.”

In his excitement, Howard has exhausted his breath and begins to cough. “Vince, let’s do this. Let’s write this movie together.”

“That’s genius, Howard. When this is over, we’ll start right away.”


	34. MARCH 19, 2020

**"Coronavirus: London Cuts Tube Trains and Warns 'Don't Travel Unless You Really Have To'"**

**_\--Sky News_ **

Bobby and two of his crew arrived at 10 am to convert Vince’s living room into a makeshift studio. They were wearing masks, of course, and kept tripping over furniture and cords in their effort to keep a two-meter distance from each other. It was almost laughable—though, because he respected their knowledge and dedication to the job, coming to work, as they did, when so many others were isolated at home, Vince didn’t laugh. He said he’d get out of their way by going to see a friend across the street—Bobby immediately asked, “Would that be the famous Howard?” When Vince nodded, Bobby and the crew made a fist, pounded it twice against their hearts, then said, “Get well, Howard.” Vince chuckled then. It gave him an unmerited sense of security to think that people who had never met Howard were still cheering for his recovery.

Taking Kadaway with him so the crew wouldn’t trip over the inquisitive dog, Vince gave him a hard run on the edges of the heath. Vince ran with his mask dangling from his neck; with it on, he couldn’t suck in enough air to accommodate his run. At a water fountain he provided Kad with a drink, then they strolled towards home. Kad hesitated when Vince turned left, toward the Chandler instead of right. “It’s okay,” he assured Kad, and with hesitation Kad followed him inside. Nobody stood guard at the door. The hallway carpet was spotted with litter, and graffiti marked the elevator doors. Now, under other circumstances, Vince could appreciate graffiti as populist art, but not today and not in the building he had spent £950,000 to share with a dozen strangers. 

Outside his apartment door, he replaced the mask over his nose, then encouraged Kad to lie down while he texted Howard. He chose not to phone, lest Howard be sleeping. The text went unanswered, causing Vince a moment of anxiety that verged awfully close to panic. Maybe Howard was sound asleep. He weighed his options: he could rush in to make sure Howard was only asleep. He could call an ambulance. He could call the police. He stroked Kad’s ears as he considered; the dog fell back asleep, tail thumping idly. He’d heard of dogs’ ability to detect health problems, even in a stranger; how much more in tune might Kad be with Howard, whom he’d come to recognize as part of the pack? Wouldn’t Kad be on his feet, whining, pacing, scratching at the door, if a pack member was in trouble? 

He texted again. Maybe Howard had turned his phone off. Maybe he was in the writing zone and oblivious to his surroundings; he got like that when the writing was going well. He rang; the phone did not go directly to voice mail. Why hadn’t Howard answered? He waited for voice mail and recorded a brief message. Leaning against the wall, he listened for some sound inside. He’d put up soundproofing in the bedrooms and living room, though, soon after he’d met Mr. Flanagan, so he could make no assumptions. Another five minutes and nothing, so he used his key to unlock the front door. Just a quick peek: he could see a slice of the living room and the balcony but nowhere else. He gave Kad a shove and sent him inside, leash trailing. He counted to ten.

“Vince?” Through the crevice he could see a pair of approaching hairy legs beneath one of his Brookelinen bath towels. “Vince, for gossakes, close the door!”

“Why? Are you cold?” But Vince did close the door. “Are you okay?”

“You know why, you muppet. Yes, I’m okay, no fever or chills, in fact. What happened? Is there an emergency?”

“No emergency. Just got worried when you didn’t answer the phone.”

“Obviously,” Howard huffed, “I was in the tub. I, ah, used some of your bubble bath.”

Vince started laughing. For some reason he couldn’t identify, he had trouble stopping. Howard had to start reviewing the history of New Orleans jazz, 1750-1861, to bring Vince down off his humor high. 

—-  


At 8pm, their usually scheduled chat time, Vince consulted his notes, then followed Steps 1-2, searching for Howard’s name in his Skype contacts list, then clicking the camera icon to begin his call. He waited literally on the edge of his seat for the bubble sounds to change to a voice. When a puzzled and deeply lined face appeared on the screen, Vince threw his fists into the air and hooted. “Vince, you’re Skyping!”

“Bobby set me up. I’ll be using Zoom for the show, because it’s got more bells and whistles, Bobby says, but Skype for personal calls, because it’s more private. Seems there have been some problems with encryption and Zoombombing.” Vince crossed his fingers that Howard wouldn’t ask for details, as he no idea what either term meant. “I had lessons,” which weren’t easy with a two-meter distance between teacher and student. “I practiced through the afternoon. And I’ll have an earpiece tomorrow so Bobby can prompt me. Anything I do wrong can be fixed in post-production.” He didn’t mention that Bobby had also brought him _Internet for Idiots_ and _Computers for Seniors_. 

“Post-production from the editors’ kitchens,” Howard mused. “That, my lad, is the mark of true maverick filmmaking. The independents would be proud.” 

Vince slid to the side so Howard could see over his shoulder. “Three cameras, which Bobby will operate remotely. Three light trees. The Violent Quiche will record music from their own homes, everything separate, then the sound guys will mix it. It’ll all go up on YouTube by 5pm for the BBC to review and upload to their system for broadcast. So what do you think? Are you impressed?”

“I am. It’s also impressive to think what this technology will do to filmmaking. Imagine, a sixteen-year-old with some friends and software can create his own movie in his basement and get it out to the public with no middle man.”

“Yeah. It could be well genius—or just a load of bollocks.”

Howard laughed. “In other words, no different from anything coming out of Hollywood.”

“This Twitch guy who taught Bobby, I’m going to have him on the show next week. Game changers, can you imagine?”

“The modern generation, Vince. They could be brilliant artistes—”

“Or just a load of bollocks. It’s just good to see you, after seventeen days.” Vince stroked a finger down the image of Howard’s face, then jerked his finger away. He didn’t want to break the connection or frazzle Skype. He picked up his scissors and some cloth to begin to cut masks; it would keep his fingers occupied.

“It’s good to see you too. Any live, human face, for that matter.” Howard’s face softened. “I’d rather be sitting next you, feeling your knee press against mine, your warm, breathing body beside me, your head resting against my chest.”

“I could be feeding you strawberry bootlaces while we watch _The Big Lebowski_.”

“It’s a date, Vince, as soon as the doctor releases me.” They sighed. “Vince, I did a little writing today, a little thinking about writing, I should say. That bit we came up with yesterday, it’s funny as hell but I don’t see a plot in it. It’s not a movie; it’s more a sketch. Kind of a comic interlude in Act II of a film."

“Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

“I was thinking we ought to go semi-autobiographical. That’s all the rage these days. _Bohemian Rhapsody, Rocketman_.”

“A musical?”

“No, that’s what will make us different: a comedy. A surreal comedy about our years in the zoo. There’s tons of material: the Mutants story, the Llama story, the Killeroo.” Howard panned his palm against an imaginary marquee. “The wacky adventures of two zookeepers, one who wants to be an actor but suffers from the Chokes; the other who wants to be a rock star but keeps getting kicked out of bands. I think it could fit into Tim Burton’s surrealistic comic ouvre, but with our own dry English wit. And to tie it back to the theme Tim wanted: the zookeepers piss off the zoo’s shaman one day, so he casts a curse on one of them: whenever it’s a full moon, his head disappears.”

“The only way to lift the curse is with True Love’s Kiss, so the zookeepers go in search of Howard’s true love and they have all these adventures.”

“At the end, they learn that Howard’s true love was right under his nose: Vince.”

Vince’s eyes glittered. “The gender confuser. And the story’s a genre confuser. Is it action-adventure? Is it sci-fi, Berks in Xooberon? Is it a Western? Is it a buddy picture?” 

“Can we write it together? ‘Genre spanners, trapped in plotlines—’”

“’Can they get out? Will they get out?’”

“’They’ll write their way out!’”


	35. MARCH 20, 2020

**"UK Coronavirus: Restaurants, Pubs and Gyms to Close; Government to Pay 80% of Wages of Those Not Working"**

**\-- _The Guardian_ **

**"Social Distancing May Be Needed for 'Most of Year'"**

****

****

**\--BBC News**

Instead of _Noir at Night_ , which was only a “Best of” anyway, Howard and Vince Skype-watched _The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon_. Both were pleased with how easily Vince’s appearance went. The technology took something away from the warmth of the sound and visual quality of the broadcast, and Fallon admitted to still missing a live audience—he talked about having considered using canned laughter, but he was afraid his “film crew”—his wife and his preschool-age daughters—would take advantage of the situation and fail to press the laugh button on the jokes they didn’t like. But the two hosts got on like a house afire, with a kindred sense of humor based on fascination with popular culture. Fallon liked the occasional political joke, while Vince took a more fantastical outlook, but for both their barbs never drew blood. Fallon introduced Vince as a “fellow talk show host and innovative comedian,” which surprised Vince; he’d never thought of himself as a comedian, just someone who told a few funny stories to get his guests to relax.

After chatting a bit about personal struggles with technology and the ups and downs of hosting a chat show, they presented a routine demonstrating the differences between British and American humor. Then Vince taught Jimmy how to crimp, and they ended with a parody of “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,” now called “Stop Spreadin’ Them Germs Around,” with Vince doing the Stevie Nicks part in blonde wig and black chiffon. 

“That was brilliant fun,” Vince giggled. “I needed that.”

Vince was watching Howard as intently as the fuzziness of Skype would allow. The little brown shrimp eyes were bright and the softly curved cheeks, barely visible through beard, were rouged with the last shine of fever. Even ill, he looked as sturdy and unmovable as the rugged terrain of the north country. “A couple of million viewers did too. Me too,” Howard said. “It’s good to see that smile again, Little Man. Not the Sunshine Kid smile; the real one.” 

“He’s seen my show. He loved the whole ‘tag, you’re it’ thing that Kate started. And the thing of guests choosing a charity for viewers to donate to; he’s been doing that too. He said he started it because he felt guilty, that he’s got a steady income and a job when so many people don’t. He’s a nice guy, Howard. I invited him to come to London sometime, after this is over, and be on my show live. He’s going to be my first guest, Monday night.”

“Seems like a good guy.” Howard got that twinkle in his eyes, the one that seldom showed up, but when it did, it meant mischief. “Most Americans are. Goodhearted, funny, hardworking. They’ll usually give a newbie a chance, especially if he has an English accent.”

“Hoooooward, what are you thinking?” 

“In the States, when a talk show host wants to shake things up a bit, he or she will take the show on the road. Like, Kimmel took his show to Vegas for a week or two. New scenery, new guests, new ideas. It can raise the ratings. Right now, everybody’s feeling claustrophobic. What if, say, a few weeks after we’re back to normal, the BBC rewarded your staff for keeping the show on the air when other hosts were doing reruns, and you got guests that normally don’t do television, and look at where your ratings are. Maybe an international collaboration, eh? You and Fallon. Live from America, _Noir at Night with Vince Noir and Jimmy Fallon_." 

“Hooooward. . . .”

“Or like a house exchange: Fallon comes here, stays in your apartment and hosts your show for a week while you live in his and host his show? That’s never been done before. Liven things up a bit. And it would be educational for the audiences. A Londoner’s impressions of America and American humor, and vice versa.”

“Interesting. It could be fun. . . .”

“’Course it would.”

“But after the virus has passed and we’re back to normal.”

“’Course.”

“One question, Howard: when will we will back to normal?”


	36. MARCH 21, 2020

“Showtime,” Howard declared. Vince could hear him crunching on something—crisps, maybe, or ice; Howard liked to chew ice—and the bedsprings softly squeaking under shifting weight. Then Howard’s face appeared on the laptop monitor. “I have my notes up, and a snack and a drink, and my pillows fluffed, so I’m ready. How about you?”

“All systems go here.” Vince adjusted his pillow against the couch’s armrest and the laptop against his knees. “I have everything I need except you.” 

Howard’s stern-teacher features softened. “You have me, Little Man; you always will. Before you make us both misty-eyed, shall we review our clues for Candy Man?” He rattled them off, interjecting sudden realizations (or so he thought—his interpretations were often a mile off, so over-thought that he quickly lost himself in metaphors and symbols that didn’t really exist). 

Vince could only shake his head and smile. “Howard, I’m glad you’re having so much fun with this show.”

“Well, it is entertaining, I hate to admit it. I’d be embarrassed for Haabemaaster to find out I’m involved at this level with something so kitschy. It’s just a mystery I’m determined to solve, sir, because the familiar features of this Candy Man intrigue me. He’s someone I’ve met, I’ve determined that much; not just someone I’ve seen on telly before.”

“Familiar voice,” Vince said. 

“Yeah.”

“And moves. Familiar dance moves.” 

“And shoes. I’ve seen those shoes before.”

“Have you? Probably have; not many men’s boots are bespoke. Tell me, if this performer is kicked off the show, will you still watch it?”

“I suppose I’ll see it through to the end if it doesn’t go past the duration of the travel ban.” That statement, made casually, hit the floor like a water balloon. Vince had forgotten, truly forgotten, that Howard had an apartment in Los Angeles, and jobs and potted plants and friends awaiting his return, as soon as the two governments which had cornered him here in limbo dropped their guard. So preoccupied with unusual activities and an inside-out lifestyle and so chewed up with worry as he had been—as he and Howard both had been—he’d forgotten that Howard didn’t belong here any more, had an entire life apart from the one he’d once had with Vince. What was in Howard’s mind, concerning the five thousand miles between their lives? Vince wasn’t even sure what was in his own mind. 

Howard was prattling on about the clues and the social media and guesses as to Candy Man’s identity. He interrupted himself to ask, “What do you think, Vince? Any guesses?”

“Huh? Oh, I haven’t given it much thought, really.” 

“We’re on!” _The Masked Singer’s_ theme music rose from Vince’s laptop. Vince only half-watched. He had an open sketchbook on the coffee table that he doodled in: airplanes, cowboy boots, Sandy Claws (which reminded him of lobster phones, so he also drew a face, on it a Dali mustache beneath crab eyes and thin northern lips and scruffy hair). If his crayons were handy, he would color the sky in which the plane flew a Roger Moore/Bond tan, and the jet stream ecru, because these colors represented depression. But the crab eyes, he would color tawny, the sexiest color in the world. 

When he looked up from his sketches, the Flying Saucer’s electronically altered voice was yammering on about “failing and flailing about” for most of his life, in a misunderstanding of what he was meant to be; “I grew up never knowing who I really was, and that spilled over into my professional life. In my mind I had a picture of what I wanted to do but I didn’t know how to frame it.” This time in the clues video, the Flying Saucer was standing beneath a triangular frame made of neon lights. In front of him waited a blank canvas on an easel, in his right hand a shopkeeper’s bell; in his left, a toy giraffe. His head cocked to the side, he seemed perplexed by the emptiness of the canvas. To the side was an occasional table, atop of which rested a landline phone in the shape of a tongue protruding from red lips. 

Joel Dommett brought the audience back to present time. “And has this show helped to clarify the picture?”

“It has,” replied the Flying Saucer. “Singing behind this mask has answered an important question for me: am I more than a face? Am I a voice too?” 

“We think your voice is brilliant,” Joel declared, but Howard pulled a doubtful mouth: “Hmm, I’m afraid that’s an exaggeration, sir.”

Vince surmised, “So his voice is just very good, then.”

“No, sir,” Howard remarked. “That too would be an overstatement. The voice is. . . competent.”

“Oh.”

“So having eliminated ‘professional singer’ from his resume, I fall back upon my original guess: this is a stage actor. Someone who’s often used costumes in his performances, because he’s learned how to move and breathe in them. As for those broken records in last week’s clue package, I surmise this man played a singer or musician on stage. Now, plays featuring a costumed singer: _Phantom_ , of course, and _Lion King, Cats, Beauty and the Beast_.”

“ _Wicked_.”

“Those characters are female.”

“Irrelevant, if he’s a good enough actor.”

“Now, here to sing ‘Talk to Me’ by Stevie Nicks is the Flying Saucer.”

They fell silent through the song. “Yeah,” said Howard in a summing up tone, “he’s an entertainer but no singer. I don’t think those broken records in the last week’s clue package are meant literally.”

“Not everyone who has a hit record is a good singer,” Vince pointed out. “Anyway, I don’t think he’s that bad.”

“No, not bad, just not good either.”


	37. MARCH 22, 2020

Instead of hello, Howard greeted him with “Mark your calendar, Little Man.”

Vince dropped his razor and trotted out to the living room, nearly tripping over Kad, who was gnawing on a tennis ball. Kadaway looked up guiltily, then sniffed at his ball as if he wanted to prove he’d done no lasting damage to it. Vince paused long enough to pat the dog’s head. “’S okay, Kad, that’s yours.” He then dodged the cables, lights and cameras to find a pen on his computer desk. Briefly, he wondered if, even though the computer was turned off, people could peer through that little camera attached to it and see that he was nude. Probably not, he decided, but they definitely could see him through the undraped french doors. Oops. He picked up a sheet from the air mattress and made a toga of it, then trotted to the kitchen to pose at the calendar. “Ready, Howard. What am I marking?”

“Friday, March 27. On that day I shall be released.” 

He needn’t explain further. They’d been waiting since Friday for this announcement. Howard was three days clear of any symptoms today. Just to make certain he wasn’t jumping to conclusions, Vince asked, “That’s from the doctor?”

Through the phone Vince could hear the rasp of the Chandler’s french doors sliding open. “From his lips to my ear and now yours!” 

Forgetting to mark the calendar, he ran out on his balcony, phone in one hand and toga opening in the other. Across the street, Howard, in jeans but nothing else, was hopping up and down. 

“Howard, your feet are gonna freeze! Get some shoes on, Howard!” Vince leaned over the railing to shout.

Howard leaned over too, to be better heard. “Vince, more than that’s gonna freeze on you! Get some pants on, Vince!” 

Vince followed the direction of Howard’s pointing finger. His eyes traveled from the fist clutching the sheet against his chest to his bare feet, then up again, stopping mid-way. The edge of the sheet had caught on the railing, leaving a foot-wide gap. . . .”Oh.” Thank Father Unicorn that Mr. Flanagan was still asleep and the “Get Well Howard” Squad of the Noirettes fan club hadn’t arrived yet from Shoreditch. He ought to email them, ask them to bring balloons. They’d taken up their post every weeknight from 5:30-6:30 and every weekend from 10am-noon since Vince had made Howard’s condition public. He ought to bake them something, maybe some moggy cake, to thank them for making Howard (and himself) feel better. He glanced behind him at the box of masks on his kitchen table. He ought to give those fans—and a restless Howard—something useful to do: a bolt of cloth and a sewing lesson. He could sit them down on a blanket on the Chandler’s lawn, Howard could crank up the stereo to play some music for them—if the neighbors didn’t complain beyond the power of Noir charm—he’d make them some sandwiches and tea, and in two hours they’d knock out 112 masks. When the task was finished, he’d send them home with a skill with which they could serve other homeless shelters. He ought to email and text them right now: Bring cotton fabric and sewing kits and balloons. We’re celebrating. 

He ought to exercise Kadaway before the fans arrived.

He ought to put on some pants.


	38. MARCH 23, 2020

**"UK deaths reach 335 and Britons Abroad Told to Come Home" \-- _The Guardian_ **

Vince awoke at 5:30 am. It was the start to a big day: at 9am, he and the staff would meet by Zoom to plan out the week’s shows, then by 10 he and the writers would write the jokes and guest introductions for today’s show, to be recorded at 1pm. By 3:30 pm the rough cut would be in the hands of Chloe and the editors; by 5, the polished and final version would go to the BBC offices for a Code of Practices review, then uploading. At 10:30 _Noir at Night Home Edition_ would go out on the airwaves for the first time. 

It wasn’t up to snuff, by staff standards: they’d had eight years of being spoiled with shiny equipment, a house band, a comfortable set, any costumes or wigs they could dream up, all sorts of cool techy editing tricks and a live, laughing audience. Tonight’s show, along with every show until the Release, as Chloe had dubbed the end of coronavirus restrictions, would be bare-bones, amateur-level, from Vince’s bare-bones flat. He and the staff had debated about just how much of Vince’s new home to show: would the public take it as a fake-out, to see their million-pound host sleeping on an air mattress and cooking on a kerosene stove? Just as they criticized any wealthy celebrity who spoke up for the poor, would they accuse Vince of lying about his situation? Vince put the kibosh on the argument: revealing his current living situation served no purpose. The camping stove and mattress meant nothing, when right across the street waited a five-thousand quid bed in a two-bedoom luxury apartment that he owned (along with the bank). The art on his walls, alone, was valued at 100 grand (never mind that most of it was painted by himself or Bryan or friends). 

When he pictured that apartment in his mind, for the first time he felt guilty.

He gave Kadaway a run and breakfast, straightened the flat, showered and dressed—but not in his stage clothes. Those would wait until 1 pm. He skipped breakfast; there was another responsibility to see to. He gathered his hand-made masks into a box he’d coaxed away from Sainsbury’s, took a few photos and carried them out to his car. It was 7:30 am now. A few of his neighbors were climbing into their cars to start their day’s work—too few of them, compared to just a month before. He wondered how many of his neighbors were unemployed now. He nodded to some of the drivers; they nodded back, but said nothing. Rather unusual; they generally liked—or pretended to—him and his celebrity. He wished he could ask them to be on his show so he could interview them. But on second thought, viewers would not take kindly to the well-to-do whinging about being required to accept a paycut or take out their own trash. 

He wasn’t worried about the show. Maybe he should’ve been. His notes were prepared, but he didn’t really need them: all three of his guests tonight were people he could talk about from memory, people who made him feel appreciated, people who would give him a good show. He had that sensation of ants crawling up his legs, but it had nothing to do with the show. It wasn’t even about Howard, who would soon be out of bed and prancing around the apartment, shaving and wiggling his pumpkin butt in time to Herbie Hancock, celebrating his recovery. Those ants were about the place he was driving to. In a £56 thousand car, from a flat in Highgate. What would the residents of Angel Unaware think when they watched him pull up in his Astin Martin with his bleached teeth and manicured nails? Here comes the privileged ballerina buying off his guilt by doing a good deed for the year? 

He needn’t have worried. No one was outside to watch him park the car. No one, as far as he could tell in the cold sunlight, was peeking out from the blinded windows way over his head. At the door was a plaque: “Ring bell.” A handmade sign was duct-taped beneath: “Were your masks!!!” 

He shifted the box to his hip so he could ring the bell. He found himself instantly wiping that finger against his joggers, as if someone who touched this buzzer last night was infected. Should he feel guilty about that too? He waited. The morning was cold and damp with dew. He needed to be home by 9; when a third ring went unanswered, he huffed. Didn’t these people know he had a job to get to? 

“You’re a selfish son-of-bitch,” he informed himself. 

A fourth ring, then an out-of-breath response: “Sorry, we’re in the middle of serving breakfast. Good morning, Mr. Noir.”

He scanned the windows. “Hello? How did you know—”

“Security cameras. And we were expecting—well, not you, yourself, but someone from your show. Listen, I’d love to let you in and give you the grand tour; you’d learn a lot that you could pass along to your viewers. It’s that we’re very cautious right now, and awfully busy.”

“No problem. I just wanted to drop off these masks.” He hefted the box, though he couldn’t figure out where the cameras were. “Can I leave them on the stoop?”

“That’s a good idea. You did it?” the voice squealed and said something to another person. “All 112?”

“I met the goal.”

“We had calls too, over the weekend, people wanting to help. Thank you.”

He felt embarrassed. “About that tour, I’ll call later in the week. Maybe we can arrange something by video cameras.”

“The public needs to know. You should have Dame Louise—Louise Casey—on, soon. Advisor to the Prime Minister on homelessness. If you really want to have an impact.”

He hefted the box again. “This was not a gimmick.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to come across like that. We just see a lot of flashes-in-the-pan, you know? Especially around holidays. The poor have always been with us, but it seems like everyone who comes into a little money or public attention feels like homelessness is a new discovery, disease of the week. Anyway, thank you for the masks; they’ll be put to immediate good use. And we can use more, if your hands are idle. Tell your viewers. They’ll need something to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t read the news yet, then. You’ll find out soon enough. Listen, I’ve gotta go, we’re out of milk and the kids are clamoring for cereal. Thanks for the masks. Make more!” 

There was a sudden silence. Vince set the box down on the stoop and drove home.  
—-  


**"Coronavirus: Boris Johnson to Address Nation on New Measures" \--BBC News**

Vince’s phone started buzzing soon after he pulled away from the curb. He hazarded a glance at it, in case of an emergency message; besides, traffic was extraordinarily light for a Monday morning. The text was from Howard, so he pulled over to read it: _Turn on BBC News_. Disturbed but relieved by the absence of the words _hospital, urgent_ or _sick_ , Vince drove back to the Charter—carefully, because the last thing he needed right now was a splashy headline in _The Sun_ : “Noir Arrested for Driving Like Maniac in Highgate.” Kad greeted him at the door, dragging his pack by a strap. “You want to visit Howard, is it?” He jabbed the power button on his laptop to let the device warm up, then he strapped the pack onto the dog. In the pack’s pocket he placed a doodle from last night, a dancing mustache wearing a pair of sensible Oxfords, while overhead the moon blew notes on a trumpet. As a second thought, he added a grapefruit for Howard’s brunch. He opened his front door and patted the dog’s back. “Find Howard.” The dog galloped off to work.

Before he could bring up the BBC’s website, his Zoom program was ringing. “Vince.” Chloe sounded rushed; in a moment he saw why: her cat kept walking across her keyboard. Every time she grabbed the animal, it squirmed out of her grasp and marched along the keyboard again. While Vince giggled, Chloe excused herself, yelled for her husband to take the cat, then waited patiently for Vince to quiet. “I’m glad you’ve had a laugh, because I have some not-so-good news. We’re going to reschedule Matt Lucas.”

Vince’s grin disappeared. “Because?” 

“Speculation has become reality, Vince: we’re in lockdown. Johnson will announce it on nationwide TV this evening.”

Vince felt his face go numb. Just when things were looking up. Just when Howard was feeling better. “What does that mean, precisely?”

“We’ll find out this evening. Most likely, no one allowed in or out of England. Everything that isn’t already closed, will be, except grocery and chemists. And everyone stays inside, at home. No visitors. Tell your friend, the one who’s been sick, that we owe him thanks. If we weren’t already set up to film from your apartment, we’d be running ‘Best of’s’ tonight.”

That pronouncement triggered a small memory. “Chloe, how’s your father?”

“”He’s recovered. He’s going to hate hearing he can’t play a round of golf this weekend. How’s your friend?”

“The fever and chills are gone. The doctor says he’s on the road to recovery.”

“Maybe we’re lucky, Vince.”

“The equipment’s up and running, I’ve been trained, we’ve still got Jimmy Fallon beaming in from LA and Bryan to sing to us from his house. I think we’re lucky.” Deep down, though, Vince was wondering if poor Howard would escape his quarantine only to be trapped, alone, in Vince’s apartment another week or more.

Not alone. No matter what penalty he would have to pay, no matter what _The Sun_ wrote about his selfish disregard for law, Vince wouldn’t leave Howard alone. 

**"U.K. Orders Lockdown as Coronavirus Spreads" \-- _U.S. News & World Report_ **

**"Close Libraries Now, Plead Library Chiefs as 'Terrified' London Staff Walk Out"**

**\-- _The Guardian_ **

—  
The announcement came in the late afternoon. Vince listened intently, although he would hear the specifics again during his show, with fuller explanations from Dr. Winston. He took notes: it gave him a tiny sense of control. After the speech, he reviewed his notes and made a more positive set, things that Britons would be allowed to do. It was a short list: meet one-on-one (while practicing social distancing), attend a funeral, spend an hour each day exercising in a park, have meals delivered, buy groceries and medications. At lunch (which he slapped together himself, a far cry from the delicacies of Clove Club [but much more filling]) he phoned Kerry. After assuring the boy’s health, Vince instructed him to stay home until the lockdown was lifted. “Are you sure, Vince? You’re gonna need help, with everything shut down, aren’t you?” 

“I’m sure, Kerry. Take care of yourself. That’s what matters now. I’ll be fine.”

Filming his show at 1:00 had been a challenge, but not in the way Vince and his crew had expected. They had no technical glitches: they’d kept the show as simple as possible, no special effects. But emotionally, knowing in advance about the lockdown, they’d all fallen in a contemplative mood and messages between the crew and the talent were brief, few and quiet. As he questioned his NHS guest on camera—not Dr. Winston this time; Winston was so busy he’d had to send a substitute—Vince’s mind kept wandering. . . to Chloe, who wouldn’t be allowed to hug her father now. To Bobby, who wouldn’t be allowed to pick up his grandchild. To Francine, whose husband, an archaeologist, would probably have to quarantine for two weeks—if he made it back into the UK—after two months in Egypt. And all the other members of _Noir at Night’s_ crew—probably 95%—who had close kin and friends that they wouldn’t be allowed to visit for who-knows-how-long. 

He was damn sure nobody was going to keep him from hugging Howard.

He read off his monologue, as written. He introduced his guests, as written. It was hard to be funny, harder still to chat in his trademark easy-going way. Fortunately, his guests were people who had brought sunshine into his life: first, Jimmy Fallon, who quipped about the ups and downs of running a chat show from home with a crew consisting of his wife and his two preschoolers. Jimmy also claimed to be a fan of Vince’s show, which he watched on Britbox, and he proved it by asking whether Vince had met his mask goal for Angel Unaware. When Jimmy, in a blond wig with eye-covering fringe, picked up and electric guitar and joined Vince, in a bum-brushing blonde wig and dangly earrings, in singing “Stop Draggin’ Them Germs Around,” for five minutes Vince lost himself in humor and the show was what it was meant to be. 

Then Bryan popped in, filming from his music room, and for those few minutes Vince felt seven years old again and safely tucked in for the night. Putting on a stern-father face, Bryan said, “All of you who are under the age of ten, it’s 11pm and it’s your bedtime. I’m going to sing you one song, and then off you go. Is it a deal? Fine. This is a traditional Welsh goodnight song. I’m going to sing it in English. ‘Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee. . . .’” When the song had concluded, Bryan whispered, “Good night, children.” 

Vince allowed a breath of silence to pass before he took up his interview questions. There would be just a few tonight; after all, Bryan had nothing to promote. This appearance was for public benefit and in support of his adopted son. Then Bryan ended the show with two of his own songs, “Song for Europe,” which Vince had never figured out was metaphorical or political; and “More Than This,” written when Vince was 8 and far too old for a lullaby—yet somehow the pleading in his big eyes had given Bryan a different understanding, and hence the song had been a tuck-in tune for more than a year. 

“I feel better,” Vince said quietly to his at-home audience. “I hope you do too. Get well, Howard.” And he pounded his chest in their secret signal.


	39. MARCH 24, 2020

**"Coronavirus: Boris Johnson Announces Three-Week UK Lockdown"**

**_\--The Telegraph_ **

“More to come, Little Man,” Howard warned. They’d been chatting about the state of the world, of course; now that Howard had only his cough to contend with, they could look beyond their own immediate needs. 

The Sunshine Kid wasn’t having it. “What’s left to lock down?” 

“It’s not just the shutting in, or the infection rate or even the death rate. It’s food shortages, unemployment, fighting, looting, robbery.”

“What’re you on about?” Vince tried to sneer but half his face, alarmed, wasn’t cooperating. “The crime rate is down. A record drop, they’re saying. All the criminals are staying at home.”

“Today, yes, while the lockdown is still new. But next month, when cabin fever strikes and people don’t have a paycheck coming in—”

“The subsidy,” Vince interrupted. “Just yesterday Sunak promised the government would subsidize 80% of salaries for the ones out of work.”

“For three months. Plus 30 billion in tax relief and loans for businesses to restart. Yes, I heard the same report. Where do you think the government is going to get that money? And how long will it last?”

“This lockdown won’t last long. Testing, social distancing, masks, disinfectants; we’ll get used to it, it’ll all be second nature and then we can get back to. . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“You don’t really believe that, do you, Vince? Nor that there’s a vaccine just around the corner. You have access to the Chief of Immunology, five days a week.”

He grabbed a lock of his hair to chew on, but a warning frown from Howard stopped him from chewing on the split ends. Instead he started doodling: a raven-haired prince trapped in a tower, seeking a knight in shining armor. “I have to believe. If I started believing the apocalypse predictions, I’d give up. I’d just give up.”

“I’m sorry, Little Man. You’re right: viewers need the Sunshine Kid. And you’ve been careful not to offer them unsubstantiated optimism. I commend you for that, for achieving that delicate balance.” Howard leaned back on the Ekart Paris couch, his iPad propped on one of its arms. “I don’t mean to steal your good humor. I’m just trying to accept the reality.”

He remembered something one of his guests, a relationship therapist, had said: “Humility means accepting reality with no attempt to outsmart it.” The thought had stuck with him because Dr. Richo had inscribed a copy of his book that way. “At least,” Vince said, “you and me have each other.”

Howard smiled. “We’re lucky, aren’t we?”


	40. MARCH 25, 2020

**“UK Parliament to Close Early for Easter Amid Coronavirus Fears. Debate on Adjournment until 21 April Will Take Place Once Emergency Laws Pass.”**

— _The Guardian_

—-

Vince’s phone buzzed in the middle of the 9am staff meeting, as Coop was running down next week’s guest list. Vince glanced at the screen:

_Vince, no cough again today!!! Doc says if I’m symptomless tomorrow, I’ll be free on Fri! :-)_

Wordlessly, Vince turned his phone around to face his monitor. The staff launched into congratulations, but Chloe had something more valuable to offer: “Change of plans. Folks, we’ll be running a ‘Best of’ on Friday.” She hushed down the sounds of confusion and protest. “That’s an order. We’ll have Vince explain it today. When the viewers hear why we’re giving Vince the night off, they’ll agree with me.”

Vince smiled in relief. “Thank you, Chloe.”

—  
“Ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow night we’ll be rerunning one of our classic shows, in fact, the very first one we ever did, back in 2012. Our guests that night were Bryan Ferry and Gary Numan. You’re going to love it. We’ll be back with a brand-new show on Monday. But I’d like to tell you the reason for the rerun. If you’re a regular viewer of this show—and if you’re not, why the hell haven’t you been? You’re missing out, people! If you’re a regular viewer, you know that my best friend forever, Howard, has been ill with coronavirus. Some of you have been so kind as to send flowers and cards to the studio for him. A few of you have even serenaded him. He’s very grateful for all your encouragement and he wants you to know he’s fully recovered now and on Friday he’ll be released!”

When the BBC aired the show that night, the editors had added sound effects at this point: cheering, clapping, whistling and even a “Way to go, Howie!” 

Vince proceeded to interview his guests, trying something new: beaming in both guests at the same time. It was a mini-reunion with two stars of the _IT Crowd_ , Katherine Parkinson and Richard Ayoade. The three of them were supposed to reminisce, but the guests kept asking about Howard—though they were careful to avoid asking any too-personal questions.

Finally Vince wrapped up: “Tomorrow night, and every Thursday night at 8pm, across the country, Britons will come out on their porches, their sidewalks and their balconies to thank our care givers by clapping for them. Clap your hands, bang on your gongs, whoop and holler; let them hear you. Me and Howard will be clapping. Will you?”

“I will!” chimed in Parkinson.

“Indeed I shall; furthermore, I shall implore my neighbors to participate so that I don’t look like a plum duff standing out there alone,” added Ayoade.


	41. MARCH 26, 2020

**“Coronavirus: UK Deaths Rise By More than 100 in a Day”**

**“Coronavirus: Prince Charles Tests Positive But Remains in Good Health”**  
—BBC News

—--

7AM

The phone rang early. Pulled from his sleep, Vince couldn’t focus on the ring tone, or he would have known who was calling. “Howard?”

“No, son, it’s me. I woke you. I called early because I didn’t want to interfere with your work day.”

“’S all right.” There was no use in telling Bryan a polite lie. “I should get up anyway.”

“It’s Howard I called about. Well, you and Howard. All is still well? He’s symptom-free?”

“Fit as a fiddle, as you Northern boys would say.”

“And excited to be soon reunited with you, I’m sure. Vince, you know I don’t like to interfere.”

“I know. I appreciate that.”

“I’ve been thinking about what we were discussing, before. Your feelings about your past romances, as it were. Er, more specifically, about your part in those relationships.”

Vince sat up, pushing his hair back from his face. “’Asshole beach ball.’” 

“Have you. . . said anything to Howard? About your relationship with him?”

“Soon. We’ll have to talk about it soon.”

“Yes, I suppose you will.” Bryan mulled the thought over a moment, then blurted, “Vince, before you do, there’s something you have to think about.”

The snap in Bryan’s voice set Vince’s spine straight. Immediately his memory shot back to the time when, at age seven, Vince had started to climb into the lion preserve at the London Zoo, with intention of setting all the animals free, cage by cage; Bryan’s shout had prevented that climb from happening. (Though it had taken a full hour or arguing before Vince gave in to the notion that zoo animals would be unsafe on the streets of London.) “Bryan?”

“Yeah, you’ve done some crappy things to people. Yeah, you’ve been selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless, shallow. But you’re not that any more, Vince. Well, a little bit shallow. And vain—still a lot vain. But look at where you are now, son.”

“Huh?”

“What was your first thought, when I woke you up this morning?”

“Erm, ah, I was worried it was Howard calling and that he was sick again.”

“Yeah, I thought so. And when you heard my voice, what was your first thought?”

“Well, that something was wrong and you needed help.”

“Where are you now?”

“In bed. It is seven a.m.”

“What bed?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The air mattress, right? Who’s in your bed, the designer one?”

“Uhm, Howard.”

“When I called you last week, what were you doing?”

“I don’t. . . .”

“Think. This is important.”

Vince’s head was still muzzy. Besides, he hadn’t done anything unusual last week. Just his show, walking the dog, a bit of shopping and cooking, a trip to the laundromat. There wasn’t much else open for Vince to do. Apart from talking to people on the phone or video chat, he hadn’t done anything beyond ordinary living. 

“When I called, you were sewing,” Bryan hinted.

“I like to sew. I know most men don’t, but I do. My clothing designs are better than most professionals’.”

“Don’t get defensive. It’s not your sewing I’m questioning. What were you sewing?”

“Masks. The Noirettes take them to homeless shelters.”

“Think back, a year ago this time. What would you have been sewing?”

“Dunno, a shirt, maybe?”

“For yourself. And when I called, what would’ve been your first thought?”

“Beats me.”

“Probably along the lines of what party I might be inviting you to, and who’s going to attend.”

“Maybe. What’s your point, Bryan?” Vince rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Dreaming, that’s what he was doing; this conversation was a dream resulting from the jalapenos he had on his pizza last night. He had to straighten out his diet; he was nearly 50 now. 

“A year ago, would you have been able to name even one of the homeless shelters in town?” When Vince didn’t answer, Byan ploughed on: “A year ago, how many donations of any kind did you make to any charity?”

“I did,” Vince got childishly whiny. “I MC’ed the Teen Cancer Trust event, free of charge.”

“Because?”

“Roger Daltrey asked me to. And I reunited the Parallel Ziggies for a show for the Gorilla Organization. We raised 5000.”

“Because?”

“Bollo asked me to. There were some cash donations too. I don’t remember who to.” Vince sighed. “I’m a busy person, what can I say?”

“I understand being busy.” Bryan had a way of making Vince feel guilty while still being subtle about it. “Who’s on your show Monday night?” 

“We’re having trouble getting the prominent—”

“Just tell me who’s on Monday night.”

“Dame Louise Casey. She’s the PM’s adviser on homelessness. Christina Quarles, talking about gender identity in modern art.”

“And?”

“Dr. Winston. But he’s on every night.”

“How many of those people would you have had on your show a year ago?”

“Well, maybe Quarles.” 

“Vince, I want you to think about the people you’re close to. Let’s say Chloe or Kerry or Naboo or I caught the virus. Would you bring us food? Offer to wash our clothes? Check up on us every day?”

“’Course I would. I repeat: what’s the point?”

“One last question, then I’ll leave you alone to get ready for Howard. I suppose you have big plans for your reunion, don’t you? I mean, as big as you can get, with everything being closed.”

“Is that the question? My plans with Howard?”

“No, this is: would a beach ball asshole—”

“Asshole beach ball.”

“Have sewn masks for the homeless, granted 10 minutes of his show every night to the NHS, urged his fans to make donations to charity, or risked his own health to nurse a sick loved one?” Bryan had to pause to catch his breath. “So who, Vince, have you been an asshole to, in recent months? And in what way, Vince, have you been a shallow-headed beach ball?”

Vince stared at the blanket tangling his knees. Bryan’s blanket, and Bryan’s sheets. Bruce’s air mattress. Leroy’s camp stove. Naboo’s bowling team captain’s lamps. Howard’s mum’s sewing machine. Kerry and his friends’ labor in hauling this furniture in. Kadaway, thumping his tail and sniffing at his pack—any second now, the dog would pick up that pack and ask to be sent to work. If any of these people thought him an asshole, would they have gone out of their way for him? 

“What’s past is prologue,” Shakespeare wrote, but Kate Bush wrote, “Don’t ever think that you can’t change the past and future.” Between the two, Vince preferred to take Kate’s advice. 

—-

LUNCH BREAK

As soon as his meeting with the writers had concluded, Vince Skyped Howard. “What’ll be the first thing you do tomorrow?”

Howard gave him the patented aren’t-you-silly look. “Get out of bed.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Call my doctor. Verify that I’m safe to go outside.”

“All right, the third thing—after you take a shower and get dressed.”

“Angling for a kiss, are you, Little Man? I will be too. The doctor has prescribed lots of kissing—and other exercise-related activities. As soon as he gives me permission to leave the apartment, I’m going to run across the street and up the stairs to your place, and when I find you I’ll whisk you up like Heathcliff to Sonja—”

“You mean Cathy. Heathcliff and Cathy.”

“No, Sonja. Whisk you up and whirl you til we both get too dizzy to stand, then I’m gonna tilt you backwards like that American World War II sailor in the streets of New York—”

“With the nurse? Oh, that is well romantic!”

“Then I’ll carry you out to the balcony and shout, ‘Listen up, London! I’m in love with Vince Noir! Yes, that Vince Noir!’ And when Mr. Flanagan storms out onto his balcony, I’ll kiss you again, for longer. My doctor’s already given me permission.”

Vince chuckled. “For all London to see.”

“But seriously, Little Man; we’ve never talked about this: at some point, we should go public with our relationship, before _The Sun_ gets a photo of us holding hands at the theater or something.”

“I plan on a lot of those ‘or somethings,’ just as soon as the lockdown is lifted.” The time had come, then. He and Howard needed to talk about their future, specifically, which parts of it would be together. “When you’re done shocking Mr. Flanagan, we’ll have a nice supper.”

Howard twinkled. “Which place: yours or—yours?”

Vince winced. “We’ll have to have it here, even if it means cooking on a camp stove. A cleaning crew will be coming in to your place tomorrow morning to give it a top-to-bottom shakedown.”

“Good idea. You’ll be amazed at what I can whip up on a camp stove. We’ll eat, and lounge around, listen to some music, dance, eat some more.” 

“A perfect day.” Who needed galleries, parties, night clubs or gourmet restaurants when they could have beans on toast with Howard?  
—  
At 7:55 pm, Howard came out on the Chandler’s balcony and Vince came out on the Charter’s. They waved to each other and Howard yelled, “Friday!” At 8:00 pm, the residents of both buildings poured out onto balconies, porches and sidewalks, with pots and pans and New Years blowers, and they whooped, hollered, clapped and cheered and danced about like drunken elves for nearly twenty minutes without interruption.

At 8:02 Mr. Flanagan came out onto the balcony of 10B to shout. Nobody could hear him.

At 8:10 Mr. Flanagan called the police. 

At 8:11 the police laughed and hung up on Mr. Flanagan.


	42. MARCH 27, 2020

Howard was scheduled to talk to his doctor at 9am. At 8:50 am, Vince and Kadaway were pacing the sidewalk outside the Charter Manor. Kadaway, feeling weight in his pack, tugged at the leash, anxious to make his delivery to the Chandler, but for some reason that made no sense to the dog, Vince wouldn’t let him go. Vince wasn’t even taking him to the park for a decent workout, just up the sidewalk to one stop sign, then down the sidewalk to the other. The dog gave a little complaining wuff but Vince paid no mind. 

The phone alarm chimed and Vince yelped, “Let’s go!” Finally, the world started to make sense to the dog: they were running towards the Chandler. A rather awkward run, for Vince was wearing his silver boots, the ones that pinched, and a red pleather matador cape that Bobby had brought him in a box of stage clothes, but Vince had had years of experience moving around in strange clothing. Quite out of breath, man and dog dodged cars and cyclists to make it to the foot of the stairs leading into the Chandler, just as the door opened and a rather startled bookkeeper-attired gentleman emerged. The latter barely squeezed out a syllable—”Vin”—before his sturdy body was engulfed by arms and his lips imprisoned by a mouth. 

Vince drew back, flustered and apologetic. “I guess I spoiled your plans for a sailor kiss.” 

“No, you merely reminded me that I’m irresistible.” Howard cocked his head upward. “Besides, Mr. Flanagan’s not awake yet. We must rectify that.” He seized Vince’s hand and hauled him across the street, into the Charter, up the elevator and into the unlocked flat. “Vince, you’ve left your door unlocked again.”

“I was going to ask you how you feel, but I don’t think I need to.” They stopped just inside the door for another kiss, then it was on to the balcony to fulfill Howard’s World War II sailor fantasy. Then it was Howard’s turn to look flustered and apologetic. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. The doctor said it was okay, but nobody really knows anything about this virus, do they?”

“That kiss was worth the risk. We’ll have to repeat it later, though, for Flanagan’s sake.”

“After all I’ve put him through these past four weeks, I owe him that much.” Howard slapped his belly. “Now, what’s in your fridge, Little Man? You promised me a Northern delight and I’m starved.”

“First,” Vince led him into the kitchen and planted him on a chair. “A toast.” A whistle and Kadaway trotted in, going straight to Howard. After pressing his nose into Howard’s palm—a request for petting—Kad turned to the side, inviting Howard to open the pack. 

“What have we here?” Howard read the label, stumbling over the pronunciation, before uncorking the bottle. “Vueve Cliquot Brut.” 

“It has to be good. It has a ‘q’ in the name.” Vince had two champagne flutes ready. 

His task complete, Kadaway left his strange humans alone, seeking a sunbath on the balcony. He wasn’t one for Yorkshire cooking, anyway.

Filling the glasses to the brim—for they were very, very thirsty—Howard provided the toast. “To you, Vince. You stood beside me through some pretty harsh days.”

All the good humor rushed out of Vince as he remembered all the harsh days he hadn’t stood beside Howard—and several harsh days that he’d caused. He forced a smile back on. “To you, Howard. And a hundred years of good health and happiness to come.” They kissed again, just a light, toast-y kind of kiss, and Vince turned away to dish something up from the camp stove. He set a bowl down in front of Howard, then dished one for himself. “Carrot and red lentil. It said ‘Yorkshire’ on the label.” He shrugged bashfully.

Howard planted his nose over the bowl for a deep breath. “Mmmm.”

“I promise something better, as soon as we move back into the Chandler.” From the refrigerator he brought two plated salads and two plated cheese sandwiches. “And for dessert there’s a treacle tart, prepared by Prue Leith. She’s become a fan of yours.” 

“A fan?” Howard spooned up some soup and blew across it. “When would she have seen—ohhh, nooooo, Vince, not the—”

Vince nodded, choking back a giggle. “Yes, the—”

“Windy Blast Fast.” Howard slapped his forehead. “Prue Leith, one of the most beloved women in the country, and she knows me as ‘The Angry Crab of Trapped Wind.’ Oh my holy Y-fronts.”

“She found it quite funny. She’s got quite a wicked sense of humor.”

How homey it felt, how secure and relaxed, both of them willing to wipe the last four weeks from their memories. And though all the shops and galleries and pubs were closed, they found entertainment, finally catching Mr. Flanagan up and about, in his flannel bathrobe, reading his newspaper on his balcony—then slamming his french doors shut when Howard and Vince reenacted the sailor kiss on their balcony. Howard recorded the event on his iPhone and emailed the vine to his mum and sisters. They emailed back with a big yellow smiley face (from Mum and Laurie) and clapping hands (from Linda). They talked, they drank champagne, they washed up, they walked Hampstead Heath hand in hand with their dog, they watched the most ridiculous movies they could think of, each doing his best to top the other’s selection. Then, as they watched the sun set, they snuggled on the balcony, Vince’s back to Howard’s front, his head tucked under Howard’s chin. 

“I’ve had the best day, Vince. It feels so good breathe the fresh—well, breathe the London air—and eat simple foods and share a quiet day with you.” 

“I won’t ever forget this day,” Vince agreed. “No matter what.”

“Is it time, then, Vince? To talk about the future?”

Vince nodded, then lowered his head. He watched a black ant skittle across the balustrade. 

“You’ve been holding back, ever since we reunited in December. I know you love me. You’ve said so, and you demonstrated it over and over, but something’s bothering you. Will you talk about it now?”

Vince nodded again, searching for words.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Howard urged quietly.

He thought for a long moment. “They”—he gestured to the street, meaning the public. “They think I’m an open book. An open, simple book, part _Harold and the Purple Crayon_ , part _Where the Wild Things Are_.”

A frown formed between Howard’s eyes, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But it’s not true, is it? I want everyone to think it is. What you see is what you get: sunshine, big smiles, hugs, rock and roll and silver boots.”

“That’s a very good persona for the public. They need simple books right now. Their lives are messy enough.”

Vince nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s good for the public. And it protects me. But with some people, I shouldn’t protect myself.”

“Not with me. You don’t have to.”

“I love you, Howard.”

“I love you too, Vince.”

“The truth is, there’s not much to me, is there? I’m a big old beach ball, all circus colors on the outside, air on the inside. No soul. Just someone who buffets about on the winds of fashion, leaving damage in my wake. Is there anything more to me than flighty selfishness? I didn’t used to be like this. As a kid I was kind. But along the way towards becoming the King of Camden, I changed. Is there anything left?”

Howard turned Vince around in his arms to peer into his eyes. “I can tell you there is. Much more. Look at your paintings, Vince. That’s the real you, coming out, for only you to understand. Look at the eyes of those fantasy characters you paint. That’s where the real feelings are.”

“I’m afraid. I dream sometimes that I’m fading away.”

“What happens when you do? In those dreams, what happens after you’ve faded away?”

“I don’t know. I wake up before.”

“Maybe you should try to finish the dream. Maybe you’re not fading but uncovering. Metamorphosing.”

“What if there’s nothing? I fade away and there’s nothing left?”

“There’s so much more to you than that, Little Man, if you would only see it.”

“I’m afraid—” Vince bit his lip. “What I did to you before—so many rude, stupid, selfish, cruel, asshole things I did, I could see I was hurting you but I did it anyway, to impress other people. I wanted them to look up to me so they would include me.”

“And maybe you needed to separate yourself from me, to feel independent. Kids do that. You weren’t the only one who was stupid and cruel. That was a long time ago when we were immature. We’ve forgiven each other since then, haven’t we?”

“It’s not the past I’m worried about. It’s who I am now. Since we split up, I’ve dated more people than I can count. Now that’s shallow. I’d start a relationship just because I liked the way she did her hair or I fancied his necktie, and then I’d chuck them just as fast, just because a prettier necktie came along. Or they’d chuck me, well deserved, I must say, because I was selfish or critical—it was like I was doing things wrong on purpose, like I wanted to be dumped.” 

“Maybe you did. Because—excuse my ego—because they weren’t me. You were meant for me, Vince. I truly believe it. I always have, and that’s why I never married.” Howard stroked Vince’s hair back. “I was waiting for you.”

“Am I an asshole to you, Howard?”

The actor clutched him tightly and chuckled. “Sometimes you have been. But not often any more. And you’re no airhead. We can talk for hours on the phone and I haven’t fallen asleep on you once. You keep me guessing, you keep me laughing, you keep me loving you, and I don’t ever want to stop. Send me away if you have to, but I’ll only come back, because I know who I was meant for. Whom I was meant for.” He kissed Vince’s forehead. “I’ve known you almost 40 years, Vince Noir. I’ve seen you at your worst. This month, I’ve seen you at your best. You’ve grown up into the boy you were before: considerate, patient, understanding and kind. I want you to ask me to stay, or ask me to take you to LA. I don’t care which, as long as we’re together.”

If Howard believed in him, couldn’t he believe in himself? Wasn’t Vice worth taking a chance on? “Stay.” As soon as the word popped out, it sounded right. “Don’t go back to LA. You can write Tim Burton’s script from anywhere. When there’s a movie role somewhere, you can take it and come back. You can audition by Zoom. You can act on West End stages. Just stay, Howard.” 

Howard raised a shoulder. “Why not? I haven’t got anything else on.”

Vince slugged his shoulder. 

“Ow! You’re right; I deserved that.” Howard swept Vince against his chest, pressing his mouth against Vince’s ear. “I’ve waited more years than I can remember for you to ask me to stay. Wild horses and all the king’s men couldn’t drag me away now.”

A commotion on the street interrupted what would have been a kiss. Howard leaned over the balustrade to wave at the dozen or so girls below. “It must be 5:30. The Noirettes have arrived.” His arm clutching Howard’s waist, Vince waved too. Over the chants of “Howard, Howard, Howard!” and some squeals for “Vince, Vince, Vince!” Howard chuckled. “Those three over there, the ones with the ‘Get Well Howard’ jerseys, they’re Moonies. I keep telling them that term has an entirely different meaning in the States.”

“Howard, we got something for you!” The girls linked their arms and swayed in unison as they sang “Welcome Back.” Thankfully, it was a short song, because these girls couldn’t carry a tune in bulldozer. 

Howard took a bow. “Ladies, I’m most grateful for your kind attention. Now, not to seem impolite, but Vince and I would like a little privacy, if you don’t mind.” 

The girls waved and walked off, some of them hooting or making smooching noises. 

“Do you think they consider their vigil finished?” Howard wondered. 

“That bunch? Who knows.” Vince grew serious. “But I hope ours is.”

10:30 PM

A bowl of popcorn and the last of the champagne between them, Howard and Vince settled onto the couch. “Just your show, Little Man,” Howard yawned, “and then I’ve got to get some sleep. Really, it’ll be the first real rest I’ve had in weeks.”

“We could go to bed now. Such as it is.” They would have to sleep on couch cushions and blankets on the floor. The Chandler apartment would need three days for the virus circulating in the air to die off, the cleaners thought—though no one knew for sure. “I’m sorry about that,” Vince apologized again. “I should’ve called the Qbic to see if they could get us in.”

“Tomorrow, Little Man. Tonight we’ll pretend we’re back in our hut at the zoo. It’ll be—” He broke off as the _Noir at Night_ theme music came up. “What’s going on?”

Vince frowned at the screen, where, instead of the Violent Quiche band, the camera was focusing on Chloe. “Good evening. I’m Chloe Coogan, producer of _Noir at Night_. Tonight, however, we’re stepping aside for a special report from BBC News. Vince will be back on Monday, with guests Dame Louise Casey of the Troubled Families program and artist Christina Quarles. Please join us. And now, Yalda Hakim of BBC World News.”

“Good evening. Downing Street has announced that Prime Minister Boris Johnson and Secretary of Health Matt Hancock have contracted the coronavirus. . . .” 

Howard closed his eyes. “I can’t take any more. Vince, let’s go to bed.”


	43. MARCH 28, 2020

Neither of them could concentrate tonight as they settled onto the borrowed couch that once served _Butterflies_ , with their respective chosen snacks nearby and with cups of the Ferry Cure at hand. Vince wished they could be back in his Chandler apartment, with all the comforts, especially the cooker and the dishwasher; but although the cleaners had finished scrubbing the place down yesterday, the disinfectants would require three days to kill off the last of the virus. They had to spend the weekend here, sleeping on the floor, cooking on the camping stove, washing dishes by hand. Howard deserved so much better. But at least they had a place to sleep, as Howard had reminded him, when so many didn’t. He’d listened in to Vince’s interview last night with Dame Louise Casey. 

And at least they had each other, Vince reminded Howard, when so many lived alone. (He’d texted Coop after that, suggesting he invite the Minister of Loneliness, Tracey Crouch, onto the show, to talk about how the lockdown was affecting mental health.)

Putting worries and burdens aside, Howard and Vince agreed to enjoy the night together. Howard had cooked, sort of (heated up a can of stew and tossed a very nice cranberry-walnut salad), while Vince hoovered (claiming it relaxed him) and they reminisced about the time Roger Daltrey had hoovered the desert. After washing up, they cuddled on the couch together for their favorite TV show (other than _Noir at Night_ ). 

Tonight’s clue video had the Flying Saucer sitting on a fallen log in a forest, his hands on his knees and leaning forward to chat individually with each member of a semi-circle of small animals gathered around him: a chimp, a lemur, a pygmy hippo, a badger and an antelope. He seemed to speak each animal’s language proficiently, because their expressions mirrored his, and giggles and nods and sympathetic looks passed back and forth between the man and the critters. Behind this little conversation circle was set up an easel displaying a painting of a medieval king on his deathbed, surrounded by an entourage. Beside this painting was an easel supporting a black-and-white painting of a woman crouched over a sleeping man. Then behind the happy circle appeared an expressionless man in a flicker of light. The man wore a red vinyl jumpsuit on his body and a weird spiked helmet on his head. On his raised arm perched a hooded falcon.

“What the hell?” Howard murmured. “Wait, wait, wait—that jumpsuit—Gary wore that in his video, didn’t he?” The man removed his helmet and the camera gave viewers a close-up of his face: out-of-control, curly brown hair, a dark mustache and intense brown eyes that danced on the edge of crazy. “Hey, I know him! I mean, I don’t really know him, but I know him.”

“I have an unusual background, to say the least,” the Flying Saucer offered the viewers. “And I developed some unusual skills, or so I thought. But for those with powerful imaginations, who can tell the difference between the real and the vividly imagined? Ping ponging between street reality and colorful dreams has brought me riches untold, but I’ve had to eat my share of humble pie, too. When I was younger I felt lost in my father’s shadow, until a robot man helped me find my way.” 

MC Joel Dommett then introduced the Flying Saucer for his performance of “Sunshine Superman.”

Howard could hardly wait for the advert break to begin analyzing. “In the clue package, the guy in the helmet. That’s Taika Waititi. I met him when I auditioned for _Ragnarock_. And that painting behind Taika, didn’t we see it somewhere? One of those art showings you were constantly dragging me to?”

“A familiarity with fine art is a very good skill for an actor to have, Howard,” Vince admonished. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, we saw that painting at the Tate.”

“So you recognize it. What’s the title?”

Vince hesitated, then finally replied in a sort of admission, “ _The Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon_. Edward Burne-Jones.”

“And the other painting? The black-and-white one?”

“ _The Vampire_ by Philip Burne-Jones. Edward’s son. Who wasn’t as successful as his father.”

“Not uncommon in the arts, is it? Clint Eastwood and his kids, Johnny Depp and Lily-Rose, Spielberg and Sasha, James and Scott Caan—”

“The Douglases, the Fondas, the Sheens, the Barrymores—”

“Point taken. You know, I’ve never felt I lived up to my father’s expectations.”

“What are you talking about, Howard?” Vince yelped. “You’re an actor who’s been in, how many movies? He was a geography teacher from Leeds.”

“Yeah, on paper I’ve been more successful, but. . .Dad had a way of making me feel like I was a disappointment.”

“Do you feel like that?”

“Not really. I’m doing what I enjoy; he did what he enjoyed.”

“There then. That’s all that matters, innit?”

“Vince, do you feel like that, still, about you and Bryan?”

The theme music from _The Masked Singer_ saved him from answering. “Shh, show’s back on.” 

As the next contestant performed, Vince peered up at Howard. “So who do you think is gonna win?”

“The Chicken. Undeniably, the Chicken.”

Vince giggled.


	44. MARCH 29, 2020

**“Coronavirus: Hull Trains Axes All Services Amid Outbreak”  
“Urgent Plea for Protective Gear for Care Workers”  
“190 More Deaths Across England”**  
—BBC News

A month ago, when he’d contemplated his March Sundays with Howard, Vince had imagined them sleeping in late, then walking the dog in the Heath, then taking brunch at Côte, then taking a stroll through Tate Modern, followed by tea at High Tea of Highgate and an hour of meditation, and then watching the sun set from their balcony. 

The reality of the last Sunday of March: At least they got the sleeping-in, the meditation and the dog walking accomplished. But they had no right to complain: they had a home to take their Sunday sleepie in, and they were together.


	45. MARCH 30, 2020

While Vince had been working on his show all day, Howard had packed up the packables—food, dishes, linen and clothes—from the Charter flat. He cleaned out the mini-fridge and the camping stove, wiped down the furniture and deflated the air mattress. Once the lockdown lifted, Kerry and his flatmates could come and haul all this stuff back to the rightful owners. The filming equipment would remain in the flat for the duration, as everyone had come to say: “for the duration,” as if the country had been transported back to the 1940s and people were “making do” for the duration of the war. 

During the afternoon, while Vince was taping, Howard walked the dog, bought some groceries and prepared a proper six-course supper for Vince, consisting of the modern British cuisine that years of business lunches at the Clove Club had tuned his palate to prefer. 

After his last Zoom meeting of the day, Vince finally walked across the street to his home. For the first time in 28 days, he unlocked the door and let himself in. Howard, Kad and a groaning table of food and wine awaited him. “Honey, I’m home,” he chimed, then giggled: “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Welcome home, Little Man.” Vince was offered a kiss and a glass of wine at the same time. “Welcome home.”


	46. APRIL 4, 2020

If he concentrated on this moment, just this moment alone, as he should to fully appreciate it and hold it close to him for the rest of his life, Vince realized he was flawlessly happy. Lying across his perfect bed, his head and his hand resting on his beloved’s chest, the television on low, giving restful white noise to the evening, a cool breeze, just a little bit winter and a whole lot spring, sneaking in through the open windows, his loyal dog lying across Howard’s feet, Vince needed nothing else. Just time, so there could be more nights like this—but he blocked off that thought. Let this moment live, independent of others. Half-asleep, he committed himself to the present: “’I put this moment here.’” 

“Hmm?” Howard’s voice rumbled beneath Vince’s ear. “What did you say?”

“What?”

“You were talking to yourself.”

“Oh.” He had to work to remember; that moment had already passed and he was clinging to this one for all it could be worth. “Kate Bush. One of her songs, ‘Jig of Life.’ ‘Holding all the love that waits for you here.’”

“It sounds lovely. Sing it for me.”

“Oh, no. . . “

“You know I love your voice.”

Vince sat up, fumbling for the remote and dislodging both Vince and Kad. “It’s time for our show.”

Howard swatted at him. “Coward.”

“Am I? Well, Kate Bush is hard to sing.” Vince reached for a handful of Flying Saucers. “Anyway, you might have to take that remark back in about an hour.”

“Which remark? ‘Coward’ or ‘I love your voice’?” Howard teased.

Vince tossed a Flying Saucer at him; it landed on his chest and he gobbled it up. “You’ve become quite the joker since you recovered. That’s what I’m going to call you from now on: the Provoker.” Howard’s lips parted for a retort, but Vince shoved a chocolate Zinger into his mouth. “Shh. Show’s starting.”

Howard feigned a glare that devolved into a gagged chuckle as he chewed. 

This moment was worth holding onto. Vince sat up straight and sipped his cocoa as Joel Dommett introduced the contest’s remaining competitors. Still chewing, Howard answered each introduction with his best guess. 

_“A grade A bit of poultry: the Chicken,” announced Dommett._

“Chase Emery Davis.”

_“Out of the swamp and into your home, the Alligator.”_

“Paul Hogan.”

_“Sssssneaking up on their competition, the Cobra.”_

“Graham Fox.”

Vince objected: “But that’s a woman!”

“Are you sure? Yes, you’re sure, but are you really sure?” Howard snickered. 

_“Our cuddliest competitor, the Polar Bear.”_

“’Lost in the blinding whiteness of the tundra,’” quipped Howard.

_“And landing in your backyard, the Flying Saucer.”_

Vince held his breath. Howard sipped cocoa.

_“Tonight we’ll unmask one more of these amazing singers—”_

“Well?” Vince demanded.

Howard licked the chocolate from his lips. “Hand me another Zinger, will you?”

“Well?” Vince reached for the cake but withheld it.

“’Well’ what?”

Vince waved the Zinger at the television. “You have guesses for everyone else.”

“Not everyone. I don’t have a guess for Polar Bear, except that she’ll be eliminated tonight.”

Vince pointed to the Word file open on Howard’s laptop, which rested on Howard’s nightstand. “You’ve been researching the Flying Saucer since the first night. You have miles of notes.”

“I suppose I’ve given up guessing that one. Lost interest. He’s just not as talented as the Chicken.”

Vince threw the Zinger at him. “It’s your last guess, Howard.”

“What does that mean?”

As the show proceeded, Howard kept sneaking glances at his notes, and when the advert break came, he grabbed the laptop for some hasty typing. “The Alligator is Ian Shaw.”

Vince leaned on his shoulder to sneak a peek at the screen. “Who’s the Flying Saucer?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Candy Man?”

“You’ve been guessing his identity for weeks!”

Howard shrugged. “I gave up.”

“No you didn’t. You never give up, Howard; that’s one of the things I admire about you. Now, who the bloody hell is the Flying Saucer?”

Howard was on the verge a guffaw. “Shh. The show’s starting.”

_This time the Flying Saucer’s video had him standing alone on a bare stage. The camera was angled above, making him look small and vulnerable in the dim light. The camera pulled back to reveal rows of empty seats. Overhead, a single spotlight snapped on and the camera intruded closer. Though his faceless mask gave no clues to his feelings, his slumped shoulders and bowed head did. A voice boomed out, “Sing, kid, sing or get off the stage.” As the Flying Saucer raised his head, seeking the source of the voice, a long dark shadow fell across the stage, blotting out the costumed figure. The Flying Saucer turned his head in the direction of the shadow. The camera lowered itself to his height._

_From stage left a cluster of notebook- and camera-yielding reporters charged at the Flying Saucer, encircling him, all demanding his attention at once in loud, English accents. So much taller than he, they engulfed him and the camera could no longer find him._

_“We like you, kid, we really do, but what’ve you got?”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“What can you do? Show us what you can do.”_

_“You ain’t shown us nothin’ yet.”_

_“You’re not ready.”_

_“Do you play your own instruments?”_

_“You’re nothing like him. You don’t even look like him.”_

_“What use are you?”_

_“What is you?”_

_In a voice over, the Flying Saucer explained, “I grew up under a long, long shadow. And they were right: I was nothing like him. So I tried on costume after costume, but I was nothing like any of them. Until a friend reminded me, ‘It’s not the peel, it’s the ‘nana.’” The Flying Saucer thrust his hands between two reporters, then burst out of the crowd. The shadow receded and a second spotlight clicked on as the reporters turned to stare at the Flying Saucer, who now spread his arms wide and began to sing the chorus of Pink’s “So What.”_

_An intercut showed Alan Sugar pointing at the camera and declaring, “You’re fired!”_

_The Flying Saucer shrugged and walked off stage._

_“I’m not what I thought I was,” the voice over continued. “Or what I thought I wanted to be. But I found out what I am isn’t too bad.”_

Howard reached over to take Vince’s hand. “No, not bad. Very good, in fact.”

_MC Joel Dommett announced, “Here to sing ‘Vincent’ by Don McLean is the Flying Saucer.”_

“That’s a difficult song to sing. He’s brave.” Howard leaned forward to listen intently. Alone on the stage except for a guitar player—out of the ordinary for a _Masked Singer_ performance—the Flying Saucer sang about the soulful suffering of the artist Vincent Van Gogh. When he finished, although Dommett assured him his performance had been “brilliant,” the audience’s applause was little better than lukewarm. 

“I don’t get it. That’s all the audience is gonna give him? After that beautiful song?” Howard protested. “And sung so well.”

“He was a little pitchy in the beginning,” Vince admitted, echoing a comment made by one of the show’s panelists. 

“But then he found his footing and finished beautifully. Tender and poignantly—you can hear how much the song meant to him.” On the television screen, the studio audience was casting its votes.

“Well, the song choice may have been a downer—most of the contestants choose big, flashy songs, high-energy.” 

_“And the singer who is, sadly, leaving us tonight is the Flying Saucer.”_

“Never mind them.” Howard peered directly into Vince’s eyes. “You were wonderful.” 

Vince grinned. “How long have you known?”

“Since the first week.”

_“Take it off! Take it off!”_

“Was it something in the clues? Or my voice?”

“The shoes.” 

_“It’s chat show host Vince Noir!”_

“Oh. And I thought I’d done so well, hiding myself. There are about fifty people who work on that show, but only seven of them are allowed to know who’s under the mask. Not even the drivers who are sent to pick us up; mine always picked me up at the Tate, and I had a visor over my face and a sweatshirt that said ‘Don’t talk to me.’ He never did. They had code names for us too; mine was Klaatuu.”

“Where have I heard that name before?” Howard mused.

“From a sci-fi movie. Kinda fit with my costume.” Vince glared at his bare feet. “The shoes, huh? I wasn’t even wearing my trademark Chelsea boots.”

“No, you were wearing the black wingtips that you wore to my dad’s funeral.”

“Oh. I’m surprised you remembered that, especially then.”

Howard’s voice lowered. “It was easier for me to stare at your shoes than to watch them lower the coffin.” He took a moment to collect himself. “I was surprised that you attended, you and Naboo and Bollo. It’d been a long time since we—since I went off with Jurgen.” 

“I’m a berk, but your mum and dad were like auntie and uncle to me, growing up.”

Howard cleared his throat and pasted on a smile. “Hey! That candy costume—who chose it, the producers or you?”

“Me. The costumers made it to my design. I went through several other ideas—an ape, a llama, a vampire—but they’d already been done. I tried to design something for strawberry bootlaces, but it made me look like a gawky Medusa.”

“The costume was my second clue that the candy man was you.” Howard pulled his laptop into his lap so he could consult his notes. “Who else would reinvent himself as candy? It was the shoes and the candy, and then the Croydon graduation gown, all the crimp quotes, the shop bell and the giraffe. The broken records—not sure about them. You never made a record, did you?”

_Dommett was asking, “Vince, why did you do this show?”_

“That was from the opening credits of _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_. And the red door was from _IT Crowd_. The _Vampire_ painting was a shout out to _IT_ too.”

“The Rolling Stones phone—I gave that to you for Christmas in 1990. But the beach balls with blond wigs on top?”

Vince gave a mischievous smile. “A reference to Jedward.”

_TV Vince was explaining, “I started out in music. I still do the occasional song on my show, and sometimes I miss singing before a live audience. Besides, I love wearing costumes.”_

“I taped the show in June last year, before you and me. . . before I thought you’d ever see the show.”

“The King Arthur painting, the falcon and that weird helmet, they're about Roxy Music—Bryan has the cover for _Avalon_ on his music room wall. The plumbing?”

“The Black Tubes.”

“Oh, of course. That leaves one big mystery: what was Taika Waititi doing in your clue package? You weren’t in any of his movies, were you? Or wait: I bet he was the first guest for your chat show.”

“No, Bryan and Gary were. Did you know if Gary married Bryan, he’d be Gary Ferry?” Vince closed his eyes to call up the memories. “After Jedward, there were a few other bands, including a Willie Nelson tribute band; that lasted about two weeks." Vince giggled, remembering. “They threw me out when I came on stage in my mirror ball suit. I was bored silly, Howard; I just couldn’t sing ‘On the Road Again’ one more time.”

“You never were meant for the country sound. I would’ve loved to have attended one of those shows.”

“Anyway, after I wandered around a bit, I met these blokes who played Blondie covers. Trouble was, they couldn’t find a girl to front the band. We were in a karaoke bar, enjoying a few, and we started pushing each other to get up and sing. They went first, the lot ‘em, got up and sang 'Call Me’ and they were ear-splitting awful, my-sweet-Lord awful. And playing air guitar and air drums to boot. So I jumped up and took the mic away from ‘em and I sang the bloody song. Right then and there they wanted me in their band. I pointed out I wasn’t blonde like Debbie Harry. ‘We’ll put a wig on ya,’ they said. I pointed out I wasn’t female like Debbie Harry. ‘Close enough. You got big eyes and a nice set of drumsticks.’ I had to admit, I do look fit in a mini-skirt. So I agreed to sing for ‘em, if they agreed that every other song would be a Bowie. And hence the Parallel Ziggies were born. Or the Blonde Bowies. We never could make up our mind.”

“Did you wear the wig?”

Vince faked indignity. “’Course I did. And I did her shapes too, when I sang her songs. And Bowie’s, when I sang his. It was well fun, but exhausting. We’d do an hour of Blondie, then an hour of Bowie, so I could change costumes, and in between we sang a few crossover songs, like ‘Heart of Golden Glass,’ ‘Are There Cars on Mars?’ and ‘Oh You Pretty Young Marias’ and ‘Starman in the Flesh.’”

“They sound rancid.”

“What we lacked in songwriting skills we made up for in volume. Well, one night we were playing during a thunderstorm, and the electricity went out. The pub had a policy that if more than thirty percent of the audience walked out before a band finished its set, they wouldn’t get paid. The guys couldn’t play without their instruments, so while the guitar player ran out back with the bartender to try to find the fuse box, I had to keep the audience from leaving, right? So I tried singing without the music, but then people really started to walk out, so I told ‘em a few of my stories. I had good strong vocal chords at that point, so I could shout above all the complaining. I must’ve told some jokes too, I don’t remember, but people starting laughing, then the ones who were walking out sat back down again. By the time the lights came back, they were on their third drinks and laughin’ their dangly bits off. 

“After the show, this Bornea wild man character comes up to me and says, ‘You can’t sing worth shit, but you’re funny.’ He bought me a lager and we sat down to talk. He told me he was a director, mostly independent film but a little TV and he liked my look and my sense of humor, but most of all, he said, I was likable. Turns out that’s a big deal in TV.” 

Howard nodded in agreement. “Q Score.”

“He said a friend of his was casting for a pilot for a TV comedy about some computer nerds. There was a small role for a Goth, kind of in-and-out. The friend wasn’t sure he could get a lot of use out of one-note character, but for small bits, it would be funny. I told him, ‘I don’t act but for me, that’s not acting; it’s history. I still have the clothes.’ ‘Come in and audition,’ Taika said. ‘Have a look at the script; maybe you can tweak the dialog. My friend’s a computer geek but but he only knows Goths from a distance.’ So I went in, fully Gothed up, and got the job. Then I got a call from _Never Mind the Bullocks_ , which I watch all the time.” Vince shrugged. “I’ve got the look and the attitude; that was enough, but I also know a helluva lot about popular culture, so pretty soon other game shows were calling. Then Taika did a movie about vampires; I got a bit part in that; and there was talk of making a TV series out of the movie but that fell apart but I probably couldn’t have done the series because Calf Eyes Productions created a chat show.” 

“Around you,” Howard guessed, “ _Noir at Night_.” Howard’s eyes widened and the lines in their corners deepened. “There’s so much of you that I don’t know.” 

“I need to learn about your missing years too. We have time.” Vince squeezed his hand. “You’re gonna live to be 95. And I’ll always be ten years behind you, until I’m twenty years behind.”

Howard wagged a naughty-naughty finger. “Shame on you, Vincent, lying about your age.” They both giggled. “Even if I hadn’t spotted your shoes, I’d have known the candy man was you. Your song choices— all you, Vince. You’re the ‘Rebel, Rebel,’ the ‘Sunshine Superman,’ the ‘Talk to Me’ guy, ‘Vincent.’”

“That last was too on the nose. The producers almost didn’t let me do it.”

“I’m glad you did it. It was your best performance. I didn’t lie when I said I love your voice, Little Man.”

“Thank you. Your opinion is the one that matters.” 

“No, your opinion is the one,” Howard corrected. “What do you think now?”

“The truth—first, the pay was very good. I made about £55000 for five appearances. Everybody always says they do the show to gain confidence. That the mask gives them confidence. For me, the truth is, with the mask on and nobody knowing I was Vince Noir or Bryan Ferry’s son—I wondered all these years if my music career failed because of bad luck or because I didn’t find the right band or the right genre or if people held it against me that I was a celebrity’s son. I had to know, did I waste all those years on the wrong career?”

Howard looked worried. “What answer did you get?”

“I learned I was better than people thought I was, but because I was an entertainer, not a singer. And so the way my life turned out was just the way it should have gone. All that time performing wasn’t wasted. It gave me a background for the career I was really suited for. And it’s a good career, Howard; I learned that this spring. Chat shows can do good things.”

“Even the jokes, Vince, and the gossip. Lifting people’s spirits is not a trifling matter. I learned that too, this spring.” Howard squinted. “Still, all things considered, I’d just have soon learned that lesson from reading a book.”

Vince chuckled. “Shall I read you a bedtime story, Howard? _Charlie Hugs the Plan Pony and Infects Him with a Virus_.” 

“Just sing to me, Vince. You owe me a song.”


	47. APRIL 5, 2020

Vince came out of the bath to find Howard at the kitchen table, head in his hands. Before him his iPad blared a _Guardian_ headline from yesterday: “England Death Toll Rises by 637 to 3,939 with Five-Year-Old Child among the Dead.”

Vince leaned over Howard to click the iPad off.  
\---

Vince picked at the specks of paint on his fingernails. He looked a right mess, split ends causing his overgrown hair to appear frizzy and his skin in bad need of exfoliation, and he was literally scraping the bottom of the stage-costume box; next week he’d have to start wearing things his viewers had already seen. “Never mind, Little Man,” Howard assured him. “This is when you truly blossom, remember? You used to create an entirely new look with just a bobby pin and a bandana.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” Vince brightened and bent his head forward, giving Howard and his barber scissors access to the back of his neck. “And you could make a five-course meal out of a spoonful of flour. We got by on twenty pounds a week in those days.”

“Well, not that little, but we were innovative.” Howard brushed loose hairs from Vince’s neck. “We’ll learn to be again. We’re still those same creative young men, Vince.” The scissors snapped and locks of hair feel into Vince’s lap. “We can recover our ingenuity.” 

Vince detected concern in Howard’s voice. “Howard, are you worried about money?”

“Well, getting re-established here will take time, especially now. It’s likely to be the spring before the industry gears up again. Jobs will be scarce.” Snip, snip. “I’ll have something coming in as soon as we finish the treatment; if Tim likes it there’ll be a bonus and he may decide to give us a go at the script. But if none of that happens. . . .My only property in LA is my car and some furniture. It won’t draw much, in this economy.”

“You’re talking like that’s all the income we’ve got. I have a year-by-year contract, remember? We’re doing fine. Better than fine.”

“That’s your income, Little Man. I can’t mooch off you.”

“My income is yours.”

“I appreciate--”

“No, no denials, Howard. If it was the other way round, you’d say the same for me, wouldn’t you?”  


“Yeah, but that would be different.”

“How? How would it be different if you had a job and I didn’t?” Vince spun around in the kitchen chair and almost got his ear cut for his trouble. “Do you remember what we promised each other when we were little kids?”

“’I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.’”

“And we always will.” Vince settled back into his seat as if no more need be said. 

Howard started snipping again.  
\--

The afternoon was just what a Sunday afternoon should be, Vince assessed: after a light lunch they took Kad for a stroll on the Heath, holding hands and chatting about the most mundane topics, and occasionally kissing. Returning home, they flopped on the couch to munch popcorn and watch the most senseless movies they could think of ( _The Big Lebowski_ topping the bill). They needed senselessness right now.

At 4pm the Queen addressed the nation. Vince intended to take notes; _Noir at Night_ would certainly want to mention this extraordinary event, although not in the monologue: even if he’d felt so inclined, Vince wouldn’t dare to make a joke at the Queen’s expense. His pen poised, he focused on the television screen, but his pen was soon forgotten. 

_“I hope in the years to come everyone will be able to take pride in how they responded to this challenge, and those who come after us will say the Britons of this generation were as strong as any, that the attributes of self-discipline, of quiet, good-humored resolve, and of fellow feeling still characterize this country.”_

“Reminds me of the St. Crispin’s Day speech,” Howard whispered.

“Makes me proud to be British,” Vince whispered back. 

“You should be proud.” Howard gestured to the bolt of cloth leaning against the coffee table, waiting to be marked and cut. The two of them, along with ten Noirettes, had delivered another box of handmade protective masks to Angel Unaware this week. 

“Yeah,” Vince grinned. “Some celebrities get cards and flowers from their fans; I get medical masks.”

 _“Across the Commonwealth and around the world, we have seen heartwarming stories of people coming together to help others, be it through delivering food parcels and medicines, checking on neighbors, or converting businesses to help the relief effort.”_

Howard squeezed Vince’s hand. “Thank you, Little Man, for standing by me while I was sick. For taking care of me.”

 _“We should take comfort that while we may have more still to endure, better days will return. We will be with our friends again. We will be with our families again. We will meet again. But for now, I send my thanks and warmest good wishes to you all.”_

“Howard?”

“Hmm?”

“Loan me your handkerchief.”


	48. APRIL 6, 2020

“And now, our first guests: from Chipping Campden School, the winning team of the _London Times_ National Spelling Bee.”

The spelling champs were followed by an ABBA tribute band called Dancing Dreams, then Harvey Sanderson & Bouncer the Wonder Cat. The Wonder Cat, rather than perform the somersault he was trained to do, licked Harvey’s monitor screen.

When the blinking light above Camera 1 turned red, Vince sighed deeply and dropped his head into his hands.


	49. APRIL 8, 2020

Chloe wrapped up the virtual meeting. “That’s it, then. Unless somebody’s got something else?” 

Vince uncrossed his legs to lean into the laptop. He still didn’t like computers, had a tendency to distrust them and the shadowy hackers out there just waiting to mess it all up for everyone else, but he was grateful to be able to see his co-workers’ faces as they talked about their show’s future. “I wanted to make a suggestion.”

“Go head, Vince.”

“When this is over—when the virus is old news and we’re back to—whatever normal will be then—I want to continue having a current events kind of segment. You know what I mean? We have access to experts all over the world on all kinds of topics. We could do some good, some real good for people. We have been; let’s keep it up. I want the first topic to be dyslexia. Did you know Richard Branson, Tom Jones, Stephen Spielberg, Cher and Kiera Knightly are dyslexic? We could do a full week on the topic. Raise awareness and money.”

Chloe grinned slyly. “Why, Vince Noir, you fashion plate, you! You’ve changed, haven’t you?”

“And maybe the show should.”


	50. APRIL 9, 2020

Howard eyed the mailing envelope in Vince’s hands. “Maybe we should give it one more look-through. One last proofreading.”

“Too late.” Vince’s tongue darted out to wet the seal, then his fingers pressed the flap shut. “You proofed it ten times; that should be enough. Besides, Tim Burton’s not going to gig you for a misspelling.” He tapped the envelope against his fingers. “This is a good script.”

“Treatment,” Howard corrected.

“This is a good treatment. It was just as funny when we read it this morning as when we first wrote it. Hilarious, in fact. The only question now is,” Vince headed for the door, “will Burton be willing to wait until summer to start filming? ‘Cause I’m not available for shooting until then.” 

“Vince, I wish I had half your optimism.” 

Vince blew him a kiss before trotting downstairs to the mailbox. “Buffalo Man, whatever I’ve got, half of it’s yours.”


	51. APRIL 10, 2020

“Vince? Just ringing to make sure you’re home.”

“Of course I’m home, Chloe. Where else could I be?” Vince made his voice as harsh as he could, considering he had to whisper. The phone pressed between shoulder and ear, he lifted Howard’s hand from his waist, raising it in the air slowly, an inch at a time, as he listened for a protest or movement that would indicate he—or more likely, the ringing phone—had woken Howard. Awkwardly, because he couldn’t see what he was doing, since his back was pressed to Howard’s chest, he maneuvered the hand to Howard’s hip. 

“You’re about to get a special phone call. Are you awake for it? You’ll want to be awake for it.” It was odd: Chloe never spoke this fast or this excitedly. 

“I’m still half asleep,” he whispered. “No games, Chloe. Can’t this phone call wait an hour or two?”

“No, when you find out who it is, you’d strangle me if I made you wait.”

“Why can’t it wait? Who’s so important that they have to speak to a chat show host at 6:15 in the morning?”

“Someone who’s willing to be interviewed by you at 1:15 this afternoon. Before you start complaining about how we always have two days’ advance notice to prepare for a guest, and tonight’s show is already written, just talk to this person. Keep an open mind. Besides, one of the reasons we hired you is your skill at improvising.” 

Howard hadn’t stirred, so Vince figured he was safe easing out of bed: first his leg, then his hip, then his chest, wiggling forward, inch by inch. “Is it Boris Johnson? It’d better be Boris Johnson, wanting to talk about his hospital stay, or else I’m staying in bed.”

“Better than Boris Johnson.”

“Better?” The bed lowered and rose under the shifting of his weight, making Howard grunt. Vince held stock-still until Howard’s breathing quieted. “Prince Charles, wanting to talk about his hospital stay?” 

The producer chuckled warmly. “You’ll never guess and I’ll never tell you. I want all the praise for this, so I’m keeping it a secret. I just wish I could see your face when she rings you. Now get out of bed and put some clothes on. Something decent, because you’re going to want to be nicely dressed when she phones.”

“She. So it’s a she. Is she calling by Zoom?” He resumed his journey to the edge of the bed. “Dame Judi—is it Dame Judi? Or Emma Thompson? I’d love to have Emma Thompson.” He’d made it out of the bed now. “Helen Mirren? We haven’t had her on since _Collateral Beauty_.”

“I’m not telling. But put on something nice. And if Howard’s awake when she calls, get him to take a picture of you talking to her. You’re going to want it for your scrap book.”

“I always put on something nice,” he griped, but Chloe had already rung off. With his hands now free, he headed for the shower. Until he’d had his shower and a cup, nobody was important enough to talk to at 6:15 a.m. Well, maybe Maggie Smith. 

When he emerged, dripping but halfway human in his kimono, Howard was standing in the kitchen, chatting to someone on the phone. The kitchen was already busy with pancakes underway. He handed a steaming cup to Vince, who nodded thanks, and continued his conversation, something about “moguls” and “flat nine chords.” So it was Lester then. Not like Lester, though, to call so early in the morning. The old jazzster hadn’t even given Howard a chance to change out of his jammies. 

Howard waited until Vince had popped the toast in and taken a sip of tea. “Vince is available now. It’s been lovely talking you. Say, if you’re ever in the neighborhood—once this pandemic has passed—drop in. I’d love to show you my bebop collection. Ta, Kate.”

Vince froze in mid-gulp and mouthed to Howard “Kate? Middleton?”

Howard set his hand over the phone. “No, of course not. What kind of berk would I be, calling Kate Middleton ‘Kate’?” He sniffed as he handed the phone to Vince.

Winslet, then. Vince took another sip before accepting the phone. Kate Winslet had guested on _Noir at Night_ beaucoup times. He’d give Chloe an earful for waking him at 6:15 for Kate Winslet. “A’right, Kate?”

A giggle greeted him, then “All right then, Vince.” Funny, she didn’t sound anything like Winslet. A voice like velvet. “I hope I’m not disturbing. How are you?” A voice that, carrying even the most mundane words, took his breath. Who could make “how are you” sound musical? 

“Erm, fine?” Vince grabbed Howard’s pajama sleeve to get his attention, then gestured to the phone. His mouth formed the question _who_. 

“I am disturbing you. Should I ring back later?”

Howard shrugged, plating the toast. “Kate Bush, she said her name was.”

Vince dropped the phone into the pancake batter. 

“Vince? Hello?”

“No, no, I’m here! Don’t call back! One moment—you’re in the pancakes—” 

Howard dampened a towel and offered it as Vince fished the phone from the batter. “Kate? Are you still there? Sorry!” He got the phone to his ear, where batter smeared his cheek and plastered his hair. “So sorry, Kate, I dropped you!”

“My fault.” The lilt in her voice was like a bluebird about to take flight. “I wasn’t sure what your schedule would be—your producer said you meet with your staff at 9—”

“Oh no, it’s all right, it’s perfect, I—” Vince sucked in a deep breath as Howard wiped the batter from his face. “Can we start again, please?”

She giggled. “I’m for that. Good morning, Vince. My name is Kate Bush, I’m a musician, and I was wondering if you would have space for me on your show this week?”

—

“You’re trembling.” Howard dropped his slice of toast onto the table and took Vince’s hand in his own buttery fingers. “Are you ill?” Vince shook his head and reached for his tea, now cold, but he didn’t taste it as he gulped. “Was it bad news? Is your show canceled?”

Vince shook his head again and brought his unblinking eyes up to Howard’s. “That was Kate Bush.”

“Yeah, she told me when I answered your phone. Hope you don’t mind, me violating your privacy like that. I just picked it up automatically.”

“No, that’s fine.” He pointed to the phone, now face down on the table. “That was Kate Bush.”

Howard prompted, “Who is. . . ?”

Now he had Vince’s full attention. Some blood was coming back into the Little Man’s cheeks. “Kate Bush.”

“Yes, you said as much five or six times. Who is Kate Bush?”

Vince pondered the question. “She’s going to be on my show tonight. I’m going to bump Xylophone Funkadelic and. . .” he pulled in a lungful of fresh air. “And I’m going to interview Kate Bush. And—Howard? Howard, she’s going to debut a new song. One that nobody outside her family has ever heard. On my show.” He seized his abandoned phone and jabbed at its face. “Chloe! Chloe!. . .Yeah! Tonight! And Chloe, Chloe, Chloe—she agreed to an interview! And Chloe, she’s going to debut a brand-new song!” He was bouncing up and down in his chair like a five-year-old who’s just witnessed Father Christmas coming down the chimney. “Kate Bush, Chloe! Kate Bush!. . . Did you set—no? It’s true, then? She said she watches me every night, she loves my humor and how I interview, and the photo on my desk—it was the photo, she said, and feeling useless in this coronavirus thing and—Chloe, she said she wanted to do her bit! A new song, Chloe!. . . Yeah, reschedule the xylophone group. Cancel my monologue. We’re gonna let her talk as long as she feels like talking. My sweet Lord, it’s Kate Bush!” Looking down at his empty tea cup, he took note of the fact that he was wearing nothing but a towel. “What a berk—I was half-naked when I talked to Kate Bush! I got to get dressed!” He failed to bid Chloe goodbye as he abandoned the phone again to gallop into his bedroom. Hangers rang on the rod and jumpers and jeans flew into piles on the floor as he searched for the right outfit. “I don’t have it! All my good stuff’s at the studio.” He wailed to Howard, who had finally caught up with him and coming along behind, had begun folding the discarded clothes. “What am I gonna wear for Kate Bush?”

Howard stacked a tidy pile of folded jumpers onto the unmade bed. “It’s going to be fine, Vince. Breathe, now, before you hyperventilate. Just breathe.”

“Breathe,” Vince echoed. “I wonder if I could persuade her to sing ‘Breathing’ tonight. Seems appropriate for the times. And she’s got an idea, sort of a musician’s challenge thing, starting with Peter Gabriel.”

“Vince.” Howard took him by the shoulders. “Before you decimate your closet: who is Kate Bush and why has she worked you into such a state?”

There had to be a way to explain without taking too much time. There was so much do before 1pm, when he would receive a Zoom call—a face-to-face Zoom call with KATE BUSH. “Suppose. . .suppose Howlin’ Jimmy Jefferson emerged from fifteen years of isolation and agreed to not only be interviewed by you, but to play a song no one had ever heard before. Just because he likes your show and he finds it amusing that you keep a photo of him on your desk every night as you’re doing your show.”

“Howlin’ Jimmy, huh?” Howard rubbed his cheek, then he had to sit down.

“Yeah. That’s how I feel. Kate Bush is to prog rock as Howlin’ Jimmy is to—whatever brand of jazz he played.” 

“Skat.” Howard answered automatically. Then he clambered to his feet and pawed through the closet. “We have to find you something to wear. And your makeup—who’s going to do your hair and makeup? You only have five hours, Vince, get a move on!”

–--  
Vince fought to hold his voice steady as he addressed the camera. “And our guest tonight—our only guest tonight—is the inimitable, the iconic, the, the, the indescribable—here to chat with us and perform a brand-new, never-before-heard song, the lionheart of rock: Kate Bush!”

“Hello, everyone. Hi, Vince.” Such an ordinary greeting, but Vince felt the earth move beneath his silver boots. How did she manage it? He would wonder later on, as he played and replayed the tape. Her voice was two voices talking at once, one, light as clouds, a cerulean blue with streaks of hot pink and lemon yellow and snow white; the other, rich and dark as upturned earth after a spring rain, deep brown that pulled your feet in, and new-sprung seed green that promised, if you’d allow yourself to be pulled in, you’d find life here that you never imagined existed. Howard noticed the two voices too, though he couldn’t explain it, except to sketch it out in notes and chords on a music sheet. 

“Thank you for having me on your show,” she continued, “and for what you’re doing to bring humor and warmth to England right now. We need our comedians now.”

“And our musicians.” What a lame reply. He had a list of questions at his elbow, well thought out questions that the show’s writers and he had spent a full hour composing this morning, but his mind had gone blank. All he could think of, as she spoke, was an almost irresistible desire to wrap himself in that voice forever. “Kate, we’re so grateful you could join us tonight.”

“Thank you, Vince. I watch your show, nightly, and I enjoy it very much. I’m especially flattered by that photo on your desk.”

Vince picked up the framed 8 by 10 glossy that had held place on the left corner of his desk since the very beginning. It had been his talisman, helping him forget his nervousness, overcome his annoyance when guests were difficult to deal with, and dare to ask questions that danced on the edge between intrusive and friendly. “This photo is a good luck charm for me.”

“Someday, if you like, I’ll sign it for you. It’s kind of a good luck charm for me too, I suppose. You know it’s been several years since my last public performance, four or five years, I think; that set of shows, the Hammersmith residency, it took ages to prepare for, and I was nervous every night. I was just terrified that I would lose my place mid-song.”

“But you didn’t. The twenty-two shows you performed at the Hammersmith Apollo in 2014 have gone down in public memory as right up there with the Beatles at Shea Stadium or the Who at Leeds.”

She giggled but reddened (and he worried that she’d cut the interview short because he embarrassed her). “Thank you. We worked very hard on it, and the band and the other performers presented such an exciting show.”

“Your son Bertie was one of the performers. An amazing voice, and a compelling stage presence.”

“Yes, we’re very proud of him. If he continues in music, he’ll have a bright future, I’m sure. But I wanted to mention, I don’t normally do interviews, and especially when I don’t have a new album to talk about, but this awful situation we’re in, that the whole world is in, has got me, I don’t know, feeling rather useless. And then Her Majesty’s speech—’I hope in the years to come, everyone will take pride in how they responded.’ I’m just a musician; in the scheme of things, I don’t have much to offer. I can donate some money, yes, and maybe cheer people up for three minutes with a song, but I’m not on the front lines like the doctors and nurses. But I was watching your show the other night, and you talked about donating your salary to Angel Unaware, and as I was listening, there I was, on the corner of your desk”—she gestured toward the photo and chuckled. “And I thought you were talking directly to me! ‘Get up off your duff, Kate, and do something useful!’ So here I am, Vince, ready to be put to work.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, Kate’s charity is the Wildlife Aid Foundation, which provides care and refuge for England’s wild animals.”

“And which is in great need right now, because the suffering economy means a decline in donations,” Kate added. 

“And she’d like to throw down a personal challenge.”

“Yes. I’m inspired by the ice bucket challenges of a few years back, so I’m throwing down the gauntlet and challenging my friend Peter Gabriel to come on this show and sing a song or two, in support of a charity of his choosing. Peter, I’m rolling the ball to you! I know you enjoy experimenting with technology too, so if you dare, we can sing a song together—what did you say the term is, Vince?”

“Telematic performance,” Vince supplied, winking at Howard. 

“Together technologically but apart physically. We’ve both made a lot of music by experimenting with technology. So there you have it, Peter, ring me up if you’re game, and we’ll sing ‘Don’t Give Up’ together on Vince’s show, if that’s all right, Vince?”

His mouth, already dry, could barely eke out an answer. “More than all right, Kate.” Beneath the table, Howard’s hand sought Vince’s, squeezing strength into him. “Genius! And now, if you’re ready, Kate. . . ?”

She stood and the camera on her laptop bumped along behind her. “That’s my husband Dan McIntosh as my camera operator, so to speak.” As she seated herself at a grand piano, the camera steadied and a male head popped briefly into view: “Hi, everyone!” He then scudded behind her, grabbing a guitar en route. 

“Like everyone else, we’re sheltering at home,” Kate explained. “We’re experimenting with some old family recipes, catching up on telly and books, and in the past month, we’ve been working on a new song.” She held up a palm in a stop sign. “Now, before you ask, Vince, I can’t promise anything. This may not be the start of something more so please don’t ask about albums or videos or tours. It’s just a song, just one song, and we’re not sure it’s finished. What you’ll be hearing tonight is the bare-bones version, and you know how much I like to tweak and twiddle in the studio, so likely it will go through many changes. But,” she glanced over her shoulder at her husband, “here goes. We hope you’ll like it. This is called ‘Resolute.’”

Vince held his breath. This had better work—nothing had better fail—no cables had better be kicked loose, no sudden power outages, no wi-fi failures—he had better not sneeze!—thank God Bobby and the rest of _Noir at Night’s_ technical crew were experienced and knowledgeable—a pet, did Kate Bush own a pet? She used to have cats, he remembered; what if one of them jumped up on the piano and pranced across the keyboard while Kate—

Then a soft guitar chord, and another, and a soft piano chord, and then her two-layered voice, and her eyes closed and her head thrown back and her husband’s fingers plucking at the strings and his voice coming in under hers like a velvet pillow carrying the Crown Jewels and ohhhh. 

Howard had to nudge Vince and prompt him by clapping his own hands enthusiastically. Vince woke from his trance to applaud too. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vince gulped, “Dan McIntosh and Kate Bush.” 

—-  
They went on to talk (and to record that conversation) for over an hour, even getting their pets some screen time, until finally, guiltily, Vince confessed that he’d taken far more of her time than they’d initially agreed to; she was the first to apologize for “being a bit of a chatterbox; it’s just that we’ve been shut in here, Dan and me, for nearly two weeks and, although we’re homebodies, really, it grates on the nerves, doesn’t it, to be stuck in one’s own home?” 

She didn’t mind at all if he and Chloe decided to use the entire interview, stretched over two broadcasts; normally she hated interviews, even when the questioner had taken the trouble to research her music; but with Vince, it hadn’t felt like an interview, more like a friendly chat over tea with someone with whom she shared mutual friends. And that was it, the other people aspect of the conversation, that made her feel so comfortable: she’d felt like he was giving her a chance to take the focus off herself and place it on people who were far more interesting, the “heavy people” who had shaped her career—including many that they both admired: Bowie, Kemp, Elton, Gilmour, Eno—and Bryan. She’d met him a few times at various public events, but she’d always hoped for an opportunity to talk to him at length. “That can be arranged,” Vince had suggested, rather bemused to learn that one of his heroes was an admirer of the man who had raised him. “When all this is over, when we can be human again.” 

Vince promised that after the show’s editors were finished trimming out the “erm’s” and “ah’s” and sneezes and pauses—well, she understood; she’d produced videos and a movie—Chloe would email a copy to her for final approval. Whatever she wanted out would be out. 

He could hear relief in her voice. “Thank you, Vince. You’ve made this a positive experience for me. And those recipes I promised you, I’ll email them this evening”—she’d shared some of her favorites, to be shared with Bryan, as one vegetarian to two others. “And tell him I said hello and thank you.”

“Best interview I’ve ever had,” he reported to Chloe. She yammered on about BAFTAs, but he tuned her out. He was busy sketching Kate’s large brown eyes.  
—

Long after they’d turned the light out and rolled over to sleep, Vince was still chattering, trying to capture in words every detail of the interview. Howard understood: it was as if Pop Music’s Holy Grail had been sat in Vince’s lap. He’d been shown a rough cut of the interview and had been impressed with the way the subject had opened up to Vince. He’d had to brush aside a tear too, when Kate Bush, accompanied only by her piano, had sung a tribute to the country. “What was that called, the song she closed with?”

“’Oh England, My Lionheart.’”

“Forget ‘God Save the Queen.’ That should be the national anthem.”

Vince bolted upright. “Howard!”

—-

When Graham Norton returned to the airways on April 10, his guests included Michael Buble and Dame Judi. Vince forgot to check on Norton’s ratings. 

\--


	52. APRIL 13+, 2020

APRIL 13+, 2020  
They’d had the weekend to rehearse—not that those golden voices needed much warming up—and the duet of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush on “Don’t Give Up” got the studio phones lit up bright as a Christmas tree (not that any staff members were at the studio to answer the phones—the callers had to leave messages that were forwarded to the receptionists’ homes). That single song also brought in a boost for both the Wildlife Aid Foundation and Witness. When Gabriel finished his set with “Red Rain,” he threw down the gauntlet for Phil Collins, who logged onto _Noir at Night_ from Switzerland to sing “All Things Must Pass” and “In the Air Tonight.” Then Collins tossed the drumstick to Ringo Starr, who performed “Photograph” and his own version of “All Things Must Pass,” and Ringo passed to Macca, and pretty soon "All Things" became a Thing. Vince was so excited that Howard feared he might have a heart attack: “We’re trending, we’re a hashtag, and we’re a Thing!” After that, everybody wanted to do a set on _Noir at Night_ and they all opened with “All Things Must Pass.” 

Introducing drafts of new songs on Vince’s show came into vogue too, especially if they were relevant: Bono had written “Let Your Love Be Known” in tribute to patients, then he tagged Jackson Browne, who offered up a song he’d written under quarantine and spoke in detail about his personal experiences with the coronavirus. Sting got Vince to cry on camera with his guitar-only version of “Fragile,” then suggested it was time to bring in some fresh blood and tagged Kasabian. Because the performances were recorded in the early afternoons, the artists got a chance, along with the show’s editors, to screen their work and re-record to correct errors—although a few of them preferred to leave the mistakes in. “Sometimes,” Kate Bush explained when she came back on the show in September, “the accidents are the best bits.” 

\---  
APRIL 22, 2020  
Ipad in one hand and phone in the other, Howard was talking abnormally rapidly as Vince entered the apartment. Vince’s big honey-I’m-home grin quickly dissipated and he cocked his head in question as he listened to Howard’s side of the conversation: something about a newspaper article and two cats in New York testing positive. Howard paused to listen, then argued back, this time about “eight lions and tigers in the New York Zoo.” He listened again, then thanked the person on the other end of the phone connection and hung up. He dropped the electronics onto the couch and knelt to throw his arms around the startled Kadaway, whose wide eyes begged Vince for assistance.

“What’s going on?” Vince came forward to touch Howard’s shoulder. “Is something wrong with Kad?”

“He’s fine, he’s perfectly fine,” Howard buried his nose into the dog’s fur. “I was worried he wasn’t because I was sick but the vet says he’s fine.” He lifted his worry-lined face to stroke the dog’s ears. 

“What? I’m confused.” 

Howard pointed to the iPad. “Two cats, pet cats in New York, they’ve got coronavirus. And at the zoo, eight lions and tigers have got it. I thought I might’ve spread it to him.”

“But he’s fine. I took him for a run this morning, before I went to work.” Vince knelt to encircle Howard with his arms. “Look. He’s just a little insulted that you lumped him in with all those cats.” He gestured to Kadaway’s thumping tail. 

The dog squirmed and finally persuaded Howard to release him. Kad rushed to his bathroom.

“He’s not sick. Most likely won’t be. That’s what the vet said. It’s very rare, he said, for an animal to get the virus. Very rare. Kad’s going to be okay.” 

“We’re all going to be okay,” Vince assured him.

“I’m sorry for making such a fuss.”

“That’s what a family’s all about. Making a fuss over its members. Now,” Vince stood up. “I’m hungry and I have to get back to work at one o’clock. It’s a long walk back to the office, so what’s for lunch?”

Howard snorted. “Your ‘office’ is 11 meters away. Come to the table. Lunch is served.” 

“Thank you for lunch.” Vince started piling his plate high. He paused to smile at his boyfriend. “And thank you for caring about our dog.”  
\---

APRIL 26, 2020  
**“Coronavirus: Boris Johnson’s Return to Work ‘A Boost for the Country”**

 **“Coronavirus: UK Must Find New Normal to Ease Lockdown—Raab”  
\--BBC News**  
\---

APRIL 29, 2020  
**“Coronavirus: UK Deaths Pass 26,000 as Figures Include Care Home Cases”  
\--BBC News**


	53. MAY 4, 2020

For Howard’s birthday this year, there would be no bouncy house or arguing DJs or dance party, no Spin the Bottle or neon lights or shamans with poppers or Johnny Cubes. Even if there’d been no lockdown or coronavirus to contend with, there’d be no legendary Vince Noir-planned party, because that was not what Howard wanted. It was Howard’s birthday; they would give Howard the event he asked for, as much as was possible in the year 2020: Howard had asked for a quiet night in with Lester Corncrake and Charlie Mingus (and for a change, Vince had paid attention when Howard explained who Mingus was). With Howard’s approval, Vince had arranged for the Moon family’s participation too; the guests would join in by Skype. 

The evening began with a champagne toast, followed by a pre-recorded birthday message from former Weather Report drummer Omar Hakim (Vince had arranged that by means of Kate Bush’s _Noir at Night_ appearances: Hakim had drummed for Kate during her Hammersmith Apollo residency, so Vince figured he had to be all right). Then each of Howard’s guests expressed their birthday wishes while Howard unwrapped the presents they had had delivered to the Chandler. There was even a gift from the Moonie branch of the Noirettes, a protective mask featuring an embroidered full moon. Howard cut his cake while the guests sang the birthday song, there was a second toast, then as _Mingus Ah Um_ played on the stereo, Vince opened his arms, signaling Howard that he wanted to dance. The guests granted the first dance to the birthday boy and his beloved, but everyone joined in for the rest of the songs on the album (Lester danced with a Hoover, pretending it was a heavy-footed lady] or was that really just pretending?]). The party wrapped up at 9pm, a very reasonable hour, Howard felt, for those who had to jobs to report to the next day. Howard and Vince had cleaned the kitchen, walked the dog and crawled into bed by 10:30. 

“Thank you, Vince. That was just exactly what I wanted.” 

“You’re welcome, Howard. I’m glad I could give it to you.”

“Vince?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve changed.”

“In a good way?”

“In a great way.”

“I was afraid I was going to lose you. Forever, this time.”

“I was afraid you’d lose me too. Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Howard.” A pair of eager hands reached out in the dark for another pair. “I want to promise you something: I’ll always take care of you.”

Howard didn’t answer and for a moment, Vince worried, but then he felt a kiss and warm tears being pressed to his hands, still clasped in Howard’s.  
\--  
Vince woke up earlier than Howard, a highly unusual occurrence. He listened to his Buffalo Man’s deep breathing and watched the mighty chest rise and fall. The world out there was screwed up beyond imagining, but in this room, in this moment, life was perfect.


	54. MAY 6, 2020

This wasn’t Vince’s style, to bother celebrities at their home residence, unless he’d been invited to. He realized he was taking a chance in violating their privacy; Elton John might just get angry enough for the intrusion that he’d never agree to appear on _Noir at Night_ again. But an idea had been itching under his skin since March 13 and the itching had come to the surface last night as he and Howard watched the documentary David Furnish had filmed some years ago featuring with his not-yet spouse, Elton John. _Tantrums & Tiaras_ was an up-close-and-personal kind of movie that lived up to its name, and it had stuck to Vince’s skin like a cocklebur. And so, after confirming the time difference between London and Atlanta, Vince dipped into Coop’s online contacts list, found Furnish’s phone number and made the call. It was 6pm in London, and Vince and Chloe had just finished reviewing the edited draft of tonight’s show. In a few minutes Vince would tidy up his ersatz studio, then walk over to the Chandler for dinner with Howard. 

“Hello?”

“Erm, hello? Mr. Furnish? It’s Vince Noir. From London. Not sure if you’ll remember me; you and El—erm, Mr. John was on my chat show in March. _Noir at Night_?” Vince could feel a drop of sweat roll down his back. This call wasn’t going well, not at all. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Vince, how are you?” 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry to disturb, sorry to call on your personal line, but, ah, I was hoping you could spare a minute.”

“That’s all right. You’re not disturbing. . . We just finished lunch and sent the boys out to play. They don’t have school—all the schools here are closed because of the pandemic. I suppose they are in England too?”

“Yeah.”

“The boys don’t have school but we want to keep them on the same schedule that they’d have at school, kind of to give them a sense of normality. So now’s a good time to talk. Did you have some follow-up questions from the interview?”

“No, it’s personal. It’s just that—well, I know lots of gay couples but—you’re going to think this is way out of line. I don’t mean to be intrusive or whatever, it’s just that you and him, of all the couples I know—well, I shouldn’t say that I know you exactly; that’s way forward, isn’t it? But see, I was watching your movie last night, and then the way you and him held hands—when you were on my show, after we finished taping and you left, you and him held hands—”

“Vince, slow down. You’re confusing me. But I think I have a hunch where you’re going; you might be surprised to hear this, but we get asked quite a lot for marital advice. That is where you’re going, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Tell you what. I think this conversation is better face-to-face. I’m going to hang up, but I’ll call you right back on Skype. Okay?”

Vince let his breath go. “Thanks. My phone number—”

“I have it. I can see it on my phone. Call you right back.” There was a click, then Vince sat back in his chair, then popped up again as his Skype connection bubbled. 

“Hi,” Furnish greeted, his smile relaxed. 

“Hi.” A ton of bricks vanished from Vince’s shoulders. Now that he could see Furnish’s face, he was convinced he hadn’t upset the Furnish-John household. Yet. 

“So, start at the beginning. Call me David. What’s your husband’s name?”

“Howard. But we’re not married yet.”

“But it’s a serious relationship, I take it.”

“We’ve known each other almost all our lives.”

“Is it a committed relationship?”

“Yeah. We split up for a while, but we’re back together.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“Thirteen years.”

David whistled. “And how long since you reunited?”

“About five months.”

“A lot can happen in thirteen years. Do you feel like you’ve really gotten to know each other again, in five months?”

“I guess that’s kind of what I’m worried about. See, we were watching your movie last night—”

“Which one?”

“ _Tantrums_.” Facepalm. To ask personal advice from someone and not even to have bothered to look up his filmography—Vince wouldn’t be surprised if Furnish hung up on him. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t even flinch. “Oh sure. Go on.”

“The problem is, I’m the Elton in our relationship; Howard is the you. Well, not exactly, but I—what I mean is, Howard is solid and dependable and responsible, you know? And I’m. . . not. I’m a beach ball.”

Furnish’s eyes brightened. “Lots of fun but full of hot air. I’m beginning to catch on.”

“And irresponsible and self-centered and inconsiderate.”

“And colorful and exciting and creative.” Furnish’s features softened. “And if you’re like Elton, you’re the star that lights the darkness for him. Are you afraid you’ll hurt him, Vince?”

“I know I have.”

“And you’ll do it again,” a new voice interrupted. A pair of hands came to rest on David’s shoulders, joined by a chin on his shoulder. “Vince, is it?”

“Erm, yeah.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I heard what you two were talking about and I think I’m the one you should talk to, beach ball to beach ball.” Elton moved around to sit beside his husband. “People like us, the divas of the world, we behave unforgivably sometimes. It can be rough on the dependable, reliable types like David and Howard.”

“But you two, you’ve been together thirty years. How?”

“He’s broken my heart more than once,” David admitted. 

“And here’s something that’ll surprise you: he’s broken mine,” Elton said. “But we apologize as soon as the dust settles, and we mean it. I do my best to learn from every argument.”

“So do I. I think it’s true for every marriage, but it is harder when you’ve got cameras in your face. You’ve got to realize that paparazzi following you around will make a little tiff blow up into a volcanic argument.”

“Get away from the paps as much as you can. That’s step one.”

“Thank you. They don’t follow me as much as they do you, but yeah, I’m aware of them when they do.”

David sniffed. “Get away from everyone as much as you can, I’d say. Your fans, your business associates, even well-meaning friends and family; any of them can stir up a hornet’s nest.”

“A diva is constantly on show,” Elton added. “Even if you like the attention, you’re putting up a front for it. Your relationship can only be real when you’re being real. Spending time alone is how you can relax enough to let down your guard.”

“I think the other thing is, stopping when your spouse tells you enough’s enough. Elton and I have this secret signal; when one of us uses it, even if it’s in front of the kids or at a state dinner, the other one knows things have gone too far. And that one—”

“Usually me,” Elton confessed.

“Backs off. We respect that signal because we respect each other. That signal is as valuable to us as our marriage vows.”

“Because sometimes you’re just not aware of when you’re being an asshole.” Elton kissed David’s ear. “He keeps me from being a berk with that signal. I appreciate that; it saves me apologizing.”

“And from spending the night on the couch,” David tapped his finger against Elton’s chest. “It goes both ways. I can be a jerk sometimes too.”

“Face it, Vince, you’re a diva. You’re always going to be. When you’re 105 and in the Old Stars Nursing Home, you’ll still be doing ten minutes of jokes with the grandfather clock as your audience. It’s what you were born to be, it’s what’s given you the living you have now, most of the time it makes people happy. Accept it. Embrace it. But learn how to back off. Howard needs his time to shine too.”

“And when you’re alone with him, turn it off completely. He’s got to see the real you so he can trust you.”

“There’s a lot to be said for being responsible and reliable, lots to admire there. I learned that from watching David. For one thing, people come to you for marital advice.” A smile passed between the husbands. “I decided I wanted some of that respect for myself, so I worked on acting like I deserved it. I’m still a diva, but a responsible one, one my husband and my kids can look up to.”

David forced himself to turn away from Elton and back to his caller. “Does that help, Vince?”

“Yeah, I think so. Thank you both.”

“Don’t forget about the secret signal.” Elton gestured away from the screen. “David, time for the kids’ math lessons.”

“Right. ‘Bye, Vince. Good luck.”

“Last word,” said Elton. “If you love him, do your damnest every day to deserve him.”


	55. MAY 7, 2020

“Hey, you’re Vince Noir, aren’t you?” She was young, but not too young, and pretty and vivacious and very interested. “When this virus thing is over, my flatmates and I are gonna throw a massive party. We’d love to have you there. Or,” her eyes followed an invisible trail down the buttons of his Paul Smith shirt. “We could meet somewhere more private, you and me. Give me your phone and I’ll put in my number.”

He locked his eyes on hers so there could be no doubt of his intention: he had no intention concerning her. “No thanks.” With a tug on Kad’s leash, he walked away. By the time he and Kad had reached the end of the block, he couldn’t remember what the girl had looked like.


	56. MAY 12-14, 2020

**MAY 12, 2020**

**"For the first time, people in England are being advised to wear face coverings in some enclosed spaces" \--BBC News**

**MAY 14, 2020**

“Your birthday is next week, Little Man.” Howard had tucked a crock under his arm and using one of those wire things, was whipping an egg-and-sugar mixture to a froth. His short-sleeved shirt showed off the lean, tanned forearms that were straining at the task. Vince decided at that moment that those forearms were Howard’s sexiest feature. He felt a little guilty for being the reason Howard wasn’t in California this morning, lying shirtless, his darkening skin beading with perspiration, beside his piano-shaped swimming pool. Or on the sparkling white sands of Malibu beach, yes, under a huge parasol, with a paperback novel in one hand and a tall glass of iced tea in the--

“Vince?”

“Huh?”

“I was asking what you’d like for your birthday dinner. I wish I could take you out, but. . . .”

“Your cooking is better than any chef’s. I guess I’d like a strawberry shortcake, and that spinach-and-goat-cheese salad that you made last week, and Kate Bush’s nut loaf. The recipe’s taped to the fridge.”

“No sooner said than done. And, erm, for a birthday gift? I had something special in mind, but with the retail stores closed. . . .”

Vince set down his checkbook atop the stack of bills he was paying. “I’ve been thinking. My birthday’s on Wednesday. What I’d really like to do for my birthday is issue a press release. I want to let the public know that we’re a couple. That I love you and we’re deliriously happy together and there’s nobody else for me or you and that’s forever.” He licked his lips. “Is that okay, Howard? I know you’re a private man; I’ll just say ‘me and Howard’ like I have been on my show. I don’t have to tell anyone your last name or anything.”

“You’d better,” Howard said lowly. The crock and the wire thing went by the wayside.

“Huh?”

“You’d better tell them my name. I’m proud to be yours.” Howard drew Vince up by his elbows. “Tell them over and over again. Tell your staff, tell the Noirettes and the Moonies, tell my sisters and my mum and Bryan—wait, we don’t need to tell any of them; they already know. Tell the newspapers and your viewers. Tell them I’ve come home to be with you.” 

“I’m going to tell them.”


	57. MAY 15, 2020

They decided there should be an order to these announcements: they spoke to their families first, not to inform them of their romantic involvement—the Moons and Bryan already were aware of that—but that they were going public. Once the public announcement was made, the families might get curious phone calls from more distant relatives or from neighbors or co-workers. Then they called their agents, to inform the public relations people, who would write something up for the newspapers. “Don’t release this until May 22,” Howard and Vince cautioned; “we want the news to go out on Vince’s show first.” 

“So what did Charis say when you told her?” Howard wondered between phone calls.

“She said, ‘That’s not news. Can’t we give the papers something interesting, like ‘Noir Leaves Jacquettie for Prada?’ What did your agent say?”

“He said, ‘That’s nice, fella. What’s your name again?’” They both chuckled.

“Never mind. Charis can take you on as her client, once this virus thing--”

“Yeah.”

Vince sat down at Howard’s laptop. “Mind if I use your computer? I’m going to send something to the Noirettes.”

“Go right ahead.”

Vince opened the monitor. “You know what? This isn’t really much of an announcement. I mean, to us it is, but for the public.” He shrugged. “Two middle-aged people dating?”

“I see what you mean. Even if one of them is the London Lothario.”

“Not any more. Never any more. Call me Vince Noir, Reliable Diva.” He came to Howard’s side to clasp his hands. “I want to deserve you, Howard.” 

Howard rested his forehead against Vince’s. “I want to deserve you too, Little Man.”


	58. MAY 21, 2020

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for tuning in,” Vince greeted. He still found it unsettling to talk to a computer instead of an audience, but he’d found a halfway solution: he’d drawn smiling and laughing faces to tape to his “studio” walls, and it was these he looked to as he gave his monologue. Sometimes a powerful imagination was a real blessing. “On tonight’s show, coming to us in response to a challenge by the Pet Shop Boys, we have Real Lies. Their charity is Resource for London, so make your donations on the BBC website. Also joining us tonight is the ever-hilarious Miranda Hart. Such fun! She is here on behalf of Epilepsy Action. 

“But before we begin, I’d like to thank all of you for your kind and patient support of this show over the past three months. It’s because of you that we’ve been able to continue. If you’re a regular viewer of _Noir at Night_ , you’ll have heard me mention my friend Howard many, many times. In March he was stricken with the coronavirus, but thanks to excellent medical care and the encouragement of all of you at home—especially the Noirettes, whoo hoo! Thanks to all of you, as you know, he recovered completely and he’s been waiting in London for the lockdown to lift so he can get back to work. Some of you have been asking to meet him, and he’s champing at the bit to say thank you, so here he is, my lifelong friend and my forever boyfriend, actor Howard Moon!”

“Hi!” Waving at the computer, Howard slid his roller chair beside Vince’s. His pink cheeks—he still struggled a little with the Chokes—begged for a reassuring kiss, so Vince gave him one, and he turned his head long enough to return the kiss. “Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say thanks for all the flowers, cards, letters, songs, well wishes and other delightful gifts you sent to the studio while I was ill. It meant a great deal. I am fully recovered now, ready to go back to work as soon as the lockdown lifts. I must say, I’m very impressed with the ingenuity and commitment the crew of this show has demonstrated, and the willingness of such generous guests as Miranda Hart and Real Lies to perform under less than ideal circumstances to bring some humor and music into our lives right now. More than anything else, I’m impressed—but not surprised—by the amazing audience that _Noir at Night_ has. Thank you all. Enjoy the show. Happy birthday, Vince!” He kissed Vince’s hand before rolling away.


	59. MAY 22, 2020

**“Coronavirus: Clap for Carers Should End, Says Founder”**

**“Coronavirus: Homeless Help ‘Like Something Out of a Storybook”**

**\--BBC News**

**“Woman Spots Vince Noir’s Face in Her Naan Bread”  
\--the Scene, p. 32**

“Sorry, Vince,” Charis said. “We sent it, but nobody printed it.”

“You mean naan bread is more newsworthy than I am?” Howard whinged.


	60. AUGUST 1, 2020

A year ago, the lounge of Vince's apartment had been one large space designed to comfortably accommodate fifty partygoers. When he alone occupied the room, Vince had used only a third of it as his entertainment area, with a television and stereo, a couch, a coffee table and a matching pair of recliners.

These days, thanks to strategic rearrangement of furniture, the lounge served as as a combination sewing room (for Vince), library/study (for Howard), and family area (for cuddling on the couch and watching TV or listening to music). If they ever decided to throw a party, as they probably would after the lockdown lifted, this room could accommodate a maximum of twenty (only family or very close friends). The new arrangement had taken away most of the room's free space and filled it instead with usefulness and warmth. 

This evening, after dinner and dishwashing, Howard and Vince had drifted to their separate workspaces in this room, Howard to write lesson plans for an online acting class he'd been hired to teach for Kingston College in the fall; Vince to Zoom with the Noirettes, to teach them how to sew neckties. The club, at Vince's suggestion, had taken on a new service project: by Christmastime, they planned to have sewn a dozen business suits to be donated to Angel Unaware, whose residents always lacked proper attire for court appearances and job interviews. A dozen wasn't much, but it was a start; if this project succeeded, perhaps the Noirettes could convince other fan clubs to do the same, maybe even make a Kate-Bush-type challenge/competition out of it. It was a risky project, the Noirettes realized, a slow progression from sewing protective masks to suit jackets, but their instructor/idol promised to stick with it as long as they did. And after all, what else did they have going on?

Vince himself had taken on a personal goal of sewing one complete suit per month. It meant giving up a chunk of his painting time, but he found this new task exciting as he imagined a formerly homeless individual now clad in a classy suit shaking hands with prospective employer--when the time came that it was safe to shake hands again. Vince also found the work to be a bit of a boon to his social life, for now, in addition to weekly lessons for the Noirettes, he'd formed an online sewing circle. None of the members could be of help in elevating his status with the trendy crowd, but he was becoming quite popular with the nana set, and he found that wasn't such a bad crowd to run with.

During the past several months, he'd learned, too, that his Sunshine powers could be put to good use in the fundraising arena. There were _Noir at Night's_ celebrity-cause donations continuing on; the more celebrities who promoted their favorite charities on his show, the more who _wanted_ to promote their charities on his show. Coop's job had shifted from beating the bushes for C-listers to appear on the show to kid-gloving the bruised egos of A-listers who couldn't be squeezed into _Noir at Night's_ schedule. 

Then there were in-kind donations: bolts of cloth, spools of thread, buttons and zippers from the House of Jacquettie (it was all just collecting dust anyway, as long as shops remained closed, Vince pointed out to Jean-Claude Jr.); food from the Clove Club that, thanks to a single phone call from Vince, had found their way to Angel Unaware; books, read just once then passed along to AU by Vince's viewers. 

Vince had found new ways to be useful, and new ideas were coming to him all the time: maybe he could take some commissions for his paintings, to raise money for AU; maybe he could start a new segment on his show: ways you can serve the community from your own home; maybe he could give some online art classes for homeless kids. Maybe--maybe--maybe. His imagination swelled with possibilities.

Despite the lockdown, he was as busy as he'd ever been, and when his day was done and he crawled into bed, it was no longer with a hangover and a pocketful of phone numbers from girls or guys whose names he couldn't remember. When he fell asleep, it was next to someone who wanted to share his home, his life and his name, someone to whom he could give as much as he took.

"What you do matters," said Howard. "To a whole lot of people, including me."

"You've grown up, Vince," said Bryan.


	61. UNKNOWN DATE

Howard wanted to be asked and Vince wanted to be chosen.

On March 27, the day he was released from his quarantine, Howard got his wish: Vince asked him to stay in London. At the same time Vince got his wish: Howard chose him over Hollywood.

On ???, the day that Dr. Winston announced the “turn of the COVID corner,” wishes that neither Howard nor Vince had previously revealed to the other came true. Just as Howard was reciting a creamy poem dedicated to his “chosen one,” Vince blurted out a request that had been building in his heart for years and years: he asked Howard to marry him.

There was really no question to be answered. The same thought had been building in Howard’s heart for years and years. 

How could it have been otherwise?


	62. UNKNOWN DATE

On ??? the lockdown was lifted and in a simple ceremony held in Bryan Ferry’s flower garden, attended only by immediate family, a newly returned shaman and his ape/familiar, ten Noirettes/Moonies, one personal assistant/college student, one television producer, one dog and Mr. Flanagan, Howard Moon married Vincent Noir. (Mrs. Paddington, conveniently, was visiting her sister in Brighton that day.)

On the day the lockdown was lifted, workers, including Kerry and Annie, went back to work if they had jobs, and if they didn't they queued at the Jobs Centers. As best they could, people resumed their lives and the city went back to normal. But the people never forgot, and life was never normal again.

And Vince Noir-Ferry-Moon never forgot.

**Author's Note:**

> Researching this story took me all over the map, from figuring out where Vince might eat his lunch to trying to keep up with the constantly-changing information about COVID-19.
> 
> I checked a half-dozen sources on the lyrics of “Calm a Llama Down” and I’ve found three spellings for one of the expressions used: do you hear **kadaway, karaway** or **calloway**? I went with the former. 
> 
> What to call Vince’s home became a problem too: in the US, we’d call it a condominium, a privately owned housing unit within a building of other privately owned units. My research shows that’s not common in the UK, but according to the _Daily Mail_ , Noel bought the flat he now lives in, so I thought Vince should too. And some online estate agents make a distinction between _apartment_ and _flat_ , with the former being more upscale, hence, I’m calling Vince’s primary residence an apartment (at the fictional “Chandler Court”) and his temporary rental (at the fictional “Charter Manor”) a flat. 
> 
> I researched how _The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon_ dealt with the coronavirus lockdown, since it seemed to be the first talk show to use video chat services to keep filming, and used that as my model for Vince's show. I took my information about _The Masked Singer_ from articles about the US edition, since that was where most of the behind-the-scenes details were given. When I started researching UK chat shows, I was pretty deep into my story, so I had to scramble after discovering that shows like Graham Norton’s air only once a week; in the US, a nighttime talk show nearly always airs five nights a week, and I’d written Vince’s chat show to follow that schedule, with summers off. So we’ll just say Vince is cutting-edge. 
> 
> I judged Vince’s income as somewhere between Graham Norton’s and Noel Fielding’s, enough to afford Vince a small luxury apartment in Highgate along with trendy gourmet lunches, and haircuts and clothes from the House of Jacquettie. 
> 
> I made Vince a bit of technophobe based on some comments Noel has given in the press concerning his dislike for computers. I have a feeling that for people like Vince, part of their charm comes from their physical presence, their warmth and their touch, and therefore they lose some of their effectiveness behind a computer. 
> 
> Kadaway’s deliveries are based on two actual events, one being a Coloradan who sent groceries to her quarantined friend via dog; the other being the “Brew Dogs” of New York. 
> 
> Apologies to any Jedward fans; after watching _Buzzcocks_ episode 24.03, I couldn’t resist a few jokes at Jedward’s expense.
> 
> I conducted a lot of research to ensure that I covered the major events in the coronavirus story, following the dates that online newspapers gave. In the two months it took me to write this story, information about coronavirus was constantly changing; I had to do a lot of rewriting to keep up. 
> 
> Some questions arose that I couldn’t find answers to: for example, I wanted for Vince to visit Howard’s mother on a day just preceding the start of the lockdown. I imagine her living with her daughter in a middle-class suburb of London, and my research suggested Leyton would fit that description. I couldn’t find out whether there would be restrictions preventing people from traveling from London to Leyton, so I took a guess and let Vince make his trip. Please let me know if that’s wrong, or anything else regarding the coronavirus timeline, or English geography, or terms, or culture, or. . . .
> 
> Quotations in boldface (primarily, from the BBC and other news outlets) are actual. Quotations attributed to fictional publications are not, just conjecture. And the quotation about the naan bread is derived from this headline from _The Sun_ : thesun.co.uk/tvandshowbiz/10038356/bake-off-noel-fielding-vodka-cranberry 
> 
> I did a whole lot of name dropping in this story. It was appropriate for Vince’s occupation and personality. The quotations and actions this story attributes to these real celebrities are entirely fictional. Their achievements, such as Bryan Ferry’s CBE or Kate Bush’s Before the Dawn residency, really happened, with the exception of those listed as taking place after 2020.


End file.
